Instead of taking the familiar street-car that would plunge them into a noisome tunnel and then rumble on for uncounted miles through the drab West Side, Horatio had turned towards the river, and they were in the wholesale district, where from the grimy stores came fragrant odors of comestibles, mingled in one strong fusion of raw food product. Horatio smiled at the question and hurried at a faster pace, while Milly, raising her skirts, had to scuttle over the "skids" that lay across the sidewalk like traps for the unwary. "I've an errand down here," he said slyly. "Guess it won't hurt you to take a little walk." His air was provocative, and Milly followed him breathlessly, her blue eyes wide with wonder. He stopped opposite a low brick building at the end of Market Street, and pointed dramatically across. At first Milly saw nothing to demand attention, then her quick eyes detected the blazon of a new gilt sign above the second-story windows, which read:-- H. RIDGE & CO., IMPORTERS TEAS AND COFFEES Horatio broke into an excited grin, as Milly grasped his arm. "Oh, papa--is it _you_?" "It's _me_ all right!" And he flung out a leg with a strut of proprietorship. "Opened last week. Want to see the inside?" "And Hoppers'?" Milly inquired as they crossed the muddy street, dodging the procession of drays. "Hoppers'--I just chucked it," Horatio swaggered. "Guess I'm old enough to work for myself if I'm ever going to--no money in working for the other feller." When they had climbed the narrow, dark stairway to the second floor, Horatio flung open the door to the low, unpartitioned room that ran clear to the rear of the building. A man rose from behind the solitary desk near the front window. "Let me introduce you to the Company," Horatio announced with gravity. "Mr. Snowden, my daughter!" They laughed, and Milly detected an air of embarrassment as the man came forward. In the clear light of the window his hair and mustache seemed blacker than she remembered; she suspected that they had been dyed. As Milly shook hands with the "Company," she had her first moment of doubt about the enterprise. "My daughter, Miss Simpson," and Milly was shaking hands with a quiet, homely little woman in spectacles, who might have been twenty-five or fifty, and who gave Milly a keen, suspicious, commercial look. She was evidently all that was left of the "company,"--bookkeeper, stenographer, clerk.