When the roaring joviality of Mr. Rawter boomed through the lower floor, old Mr. Wetherbee, the vice-president, would look up from his desk, and remark quietly to any one who happened near, “Mr. Rawter is forced to meet the trade, you know.” It was doubtless his gentle Quaker conception that wine-lists, back-slapping and whole-souled abandonment of to-morrow, were essentials of the road and trade affiliation. From the rear of the main floor, back among the piles of stock, reverberating among great square monuments of ledgers and pamphlets were the jovial voices of the other salesmen, Mr. Rawter’s seconds, the Middle-west man, and the Coast-and-South man--voices slightly muffled, as became their station, but regular in joviality, and doubtless as boom-compelling afield as their chief’s, considering their years. Otherwise the elder Mr. Wetherbee--Mr. Seth--presided over a distinguished silence for the main. His desk was open to the floor at large. He was seventy, and one of the first to arrive in the morning--a vice-president who opened the mail, and had in expert scrutiny such matters as employment, salaries, orders and expenses of the travelling men on the road. Mr. Seth was not a dreamer; at least not on week-days--a millionaire, who gave you the impression that he was constantly on his guard lest his heart-quality should suddenly ruin all. The love, the very ardour of his soul was to _give_ away--to dissipate the fortunes of his own and the firm-members, but so successfully had he fought all his life on the basis of considering the justice to his family and his firm, that Lot & Company now relied upon him, undoubting. Thus often a man born with weakness develops it into his particular strength.... The son, Eben Wetherbee, was harder for Bellair to designate. He seemed a different force, and called forth secret regard. A religious young man, who always occurred to Bellair’s mind as he had once seen him, crossing the Square a summer evening, a book under his arm, his short steps lifted and queerly rounded, as if treading a low-geared sprocket; toes straight out--the whole gait mincing a little. Eben was smileless and a great worker. He had no more to do or say with his father during working hours than any of the others.