"What might your business be?" asked the old man, with natural curiosity. "I am a broker, sir, in Wall Street. Of course you have heard of Wall Street." "Oh, yes," answered the old man, proud of his familiarity with the name of this famous street. "Is it a pooty good business?" "Well, that depends on circumstances. Sometimes I make money hand over hand, but for the last month I give you my word I probably haven't made over two hundred dollars." "Two hundred dollars in a month!" repeated the farmer. "Why, that's doing first rate, I call it." The young man shrugged his shoulders. "Not for a broker," he said. "Why if I make less than five hundred I don't call it much." "Five hundred dollars a month?" asked the farmer, much impressed. "Yes." "Why, that's six thousand dollars a year." "Exactly. You are good in arithmetic," said the young man, languidly. "Is--is there any chance to go into that business?" asked the Orange County man, eagerly. "My friend, I would hardly advise you to go into it. You are rather old to begin a new business." "That's so, but I don't ask for myself. I've got a son--he's my youngest son--a young man of twenty-five, who's anxious to get something to do in the city. He ain't much good on a farm--don't seem to like it. He's read a good many books and stories about New York city, and he wants to come here. I wish I could get him a chance to learn the broker business. You haven't a place in your office now, have you?" The young swell laughed in his sleeve. "I've hooked the old man," he said to himself. "Now if I work my cards right, I shall be able to make something out of him." "My friend," he said, "I can't tell you at once, but I will think it over, and--see you to-morrow morning." He had not intended to finish his sentence thus, but just then he espied at the door of the reading room a small, quiet-looking man whose glance rested for a moment upon him. He knew--he had reason to know--that this was Richard Darke, a well-known detective. He rose from his seat and sauntered to the door, and in two minutes he was one of the motley crowd that throng Broadway. CHAPTER XI. RUPERT RECEIVES A COMMISSION. The detective, as he left the reading room, passed Rupert, who was just entering. "Let me see," he said, tapping Rupert on the shoulder, "you are the bell-boy who came near being murdered by a crank?" "Yes, sir." "You escaped very cleverly. You are evidently a sharp boy. Keep your eyes open, don't you?" "Yes, sir; except when I'm asleep." "We detectives have to keep our eyes open all the time, but we can't be everywhere at once. Now I feel a little inclined to make you my deputy--not permanently, but for a time." "All right, sir." "Have you noticed rather a flashy young man, looking like a dude, with an eyeglass and cane?" "Yes, sir; he is frequently in the hotel." "You know, of course, that he isn't a guest?" "Yes, sir. We bell-boys know who are guests and who are not."