“They don't look like very rich men.” “They're not. Now and then a camel crawls through but it is a tight squeeze,” remarked Peter arching his gray, bushy eyebrows, a smile hovering about his lips. The boy laughed: “Well, then, how did they get here?” “Principally because they lead decent lives, are not puffed up with conceit, have creative brains and put them to some honest use,” answered Peter. The boy looked away for a moment and remarked quietly that about everybody he knew would fail in one or more of these qualifications. Then he added: “And now tell me, Mr. Grayson, what most of them do--that gentleman, for instance, who is talking to the old man in the velvet cap.” “That is General Norton, one of our most distinguished engineers. He is Consulting Engineer in the Croton Aqueduct Department, and his opinion is sought all over the country. He started life as a tow-boy on the Erie Canal, and when he was your age he was keeping tally of dump-cars from a cut on the Pennsylvania Railroad.” Jack looked at the General in wonderment, but he was too much interested in the other persons about him to pursue the inquiry any further. “And the man next to him--the one with his hand to his head?” “I don't recall him, but the Major may.” “That is Professor Hastings of Yale,” I replied--“perhaps the most eminent chemist in this or any other country.” “And what did he do when he was a boy?” asked young Breen. “Made pills, I expect, and washed out test tubes and retorts,” interrupted Peter, with a look on his face as if the poor professor were more to be pitied than commended. “Did any of them dig?” asked the boy. “What kind of digging?” inquired Peter. “Well, the kind you spoke of the night you came to see me.” “Oh, with their hands?” cried Peter with a laugh. “Well, now, let me see--” and his glance roved about the room. “There is Mr. Schlessinger, the Egyptologist, but of course he was after mummies, not dirt; and then there is--yes--that sun-burned young fellow of forty, talking to Mr. Eastman Johnson; he has been at work in Yucatan looking for Toltec ruins, because he told me his experience only a few nights ago; but then, of course, that can hardly be said to be--Oh!--now I have it. You see that tall man with side-whiskers, looking like a young bank president--my kind--my boy--well, he started life with a pick and shovel. The steel point of the pick if I remember rightly, turned up a nugget of gold that made him rich, but he DUG all the same, and he may again some day--you can't tell.” It had all been a delightful experience for Jack and his face showed it, but it was not until after I left that the story of why he had come late was told. He had started several times to explain but the constant interruption of members anxious to shake Peter's hand, had always prevented. “I haven't apologized for being late, sir,” Jack had said at last. “It was long after ten, I am afraid, but I could not help it.” “No; what was the matter?”