“We are going to my house in the country,” explained Tootler. “We are going to drive and drive and talk over old times, and have some iced punch after the old fashion, and a pipe after punch. For your part, you are going to be made love to by Mrs. Tootler; she shall sing to you, with her divinest voice, everything that you have loved in old times, and a thousand new things that you will love when you hear them; she shall play to you on the dulcinea, sackbut, psaltery, spinnet, harp, lute, and every kind of instrument, including a piano. Her name was a prophecy--there’s something in a name. Now yours--I don’t believe you would have been bolting off to India as you did, forgetting all your friends, if your name had not been Ira.” “No more o’ that, Tommy,” protested Ira, “now that one of my friends has proved that he has not forgotten me. But tell me, is it usual for merchants of Boston, in wool or out of it, to carry pocket flutes or bassoons, and while away the noontide hour with dulcet strains, such as you gave me? Do they all play solos in solitude?” “They might do worse, and some of ’em do. The fact is, Ira, I meet such a set of inharmonious knaves that I must soothe me with a little blow now and then. I have had the doors felted. Not much sound goes through. Generally, I can wait till I get to the Shrine--so I call my box--St. Cecilia’s Shrine--for my music, but sometimes these confounded beggars rasp me so with their mean tricks and tempting swindles that I have to pipe up. The clerks wait till I’ve done and then ask for half-holidays. I have to deal with a pretty shabby crew. These manufacturers are always hard up and keep sending a lot of daggered scallawags here to get contributions to put little bills through Congress about the tariff. They don’t get much out of Tommy Tootler--nor much ahead of him--the loafers!” and Tommy, to tranquillise his soul, took his flute and gave “Il segreto” with thrilling trills. As he closed, a small knock smote the door and the youngest clerk, aged fifteen, peered in. His pantaloons were hitched up by his hasty descent from a high stool. “Mr. Tootler,” he began timidly, but gathering courage at every word, “my sisters are going to have a raspberry party this evening and--and my mother’s not very well. Can I go home at three?” “Go along, my boy!” said the merchant, “and don’t take too many raspberries or you may be more ill than your mother.” Clerkling disappeared and a suppressed cheer came through the felted door.