The president's eyes came gradually down from the Commerce, and, after travelling over the countenances of his stirring _confrères,_ they settled by accident upon the table before him. There they encountered a white envelope, inscribed "to the President and Honorable Board of Directors--Present." "Oh gentlemen! gentlemen!" cried the president, seizing the letter, "one moment more, I beg of you. Here's a--a--note--a communication--a--I don't know what it is myself, I'm sure, but"--the thirteen sank back again, feeling somewhat touched that they should be so restrained. The president ran his eye over the missive. He smiled as one does sometimes at the precocity of an infant. "The letter, gentlemen," said he, slipping the paper through his fingers, "is from the paying teller. It is a request for"--here the president delayed as if about making a humorous point--"for a larger salary." Then he dropped his eyes and lowered his head, as he might have done had he confessed that somebody had kissed him. He seemed to be the innocent mouthpiece of a piece of flagrant nonsense. There was a moment's silence. Then a heavy-voiced gentleman took up a pen and said: "Is this man's name Dreyfus--or--or what is it?" "Let me think," returned the president, returning once more to the Commerce; "Dreyfus?--no--not Dreyfus--yes--no. Paying teller--hum--it's curious I can't recall--it commences with an F--FIELDS--yes, Fields! that's his name--Fields, to be sure!" The questioner at once wrote down the word on the paper. "This is the second time that he has applied for this favor, is it not?" formally inquired another of the thirteen, in the tone that a judge uses when he asks the clerk, "Has he not been before me on a former occasion?" "Yes," replied the president, "this is a renewal of an effort made six months ago." There was a general movement. Several chairs rolled back, and their occupants exchanged querulous glances. "Suppose we hear the letter read," suggested a fair soul. "Perhaps"--a septuagenarian, with snowy hair and a thin body, clad in the clerical guise of the old school, and who had made a fortune by inventing a hat-block, arose hastily to his feet, and said: "I cannot stay to listen to a dun!" A chorus from the majority echoed the exclamation. All but four staggered to their feet, and tottered off in various directions; some to pretend to look out at the window, and some to the wardrobes, where was deposited their outer clothing. "Clarks," stammered the feeble hatter, feeling vainly for the arm-holes in his great-coat--"clarks presume on their value. Turn 'em out, say I. Give 'em a chance to rotate. You've got my opinion, Mr. President. Refuse what's-his-name, Fields. Tell him he's happy and well off now, without knowing it. Where _can_ be the sleeves to--to this"--his voice expired in his perplexity.