He had no idea when the struggle would come; he would have been greatly surprised had he known how imminent it really was; and he could form no guess as to what could precipitate it. But he knew he would be ready for it when it did come, and at the thought he smiled in genuine artistic anticipation. John Bagsbury was a worthy antagonist. Sponley did not wish to fight him, he would go far to avoid fighting him; but if it should come to that,--and he knew in his heart it would,--well, the fight would be worth coming a long way to see. CHAPTER VI LARD “Is Mr. Bagsbury in?” The question was addressed to Jervis Curtin, who was sitting at his desk just outside the private office. “I think so,” he answered. “Just go right through into the inner office. I fancy you’ll find him there.” The visitor nodded, and, walking through the cashier’s private office, entered John Bagsbury’s sanctum and closed the door behind him. “Who is he?” Curtin asked of a clerk who happened to be standing near his desk. “Don’t you know him? That’s Pickering, William George Pickering, the soap man. You’ve heard of Pickering’s Diamond Soap, haven’t you? Well, he’s the man. It’s pretty poor soap, I guess, but he got the scheme of making it in diamond-shaped cakes, and it caught right on. He’s richer’n the devil.” The clerk thought Curtin looked interested, so he was encouraged to continue his remarks. “He takes a whirl at the market every now and then, too. He smashed up that Smith deal last winter: smashed it all to smithereens. Just a joke,” he added, to explain the fact that he had giggled, “Smith--smithereens. But, as I was saying, Pickering’s a corker. He just lays low and doesn’t show his hand until----” “Good Lord!” ejaculated Curtin, with a laugh. “That’s enough. I don’t want to write his biography.” “All right,” said the clerk, “I just came over to ask you if I should enter that----” “You’d better take it to Mr. Jackson or Mr. Peters,” Curtin interrupted quickly. “I haven’t time to see about it now.” “But----” the clerk began. “I’ve got to meet a man,” said Curtin, looking at his watch, “in exactly three minutes, at a place just five and a half squares from here, so you’ll have to excuse me,” and seizing his hat, he fled. The younger man stared after him disapprovingly and then walked back toward his own place, stopping for a talk with one of his fellow-clerks, who was none other than Jack Dorlin. “That man Curtin doesn’t know a damn thing,” he said. “I can’t see, if Bagsbury is as good a banker as they say he is, why he doesn’t get on to it. Any man who knows anything much about banking, can see that Curtin isn’t fit for his job.” Jack stopped his pencil, which was moving slowly up a column of figures, just as carefully as though he had not lost count two inches back. “I’ll tell you what, Hillsmead,” he said to the clerk, “I should think you’d go and speak to Mr. Bagsbury about it.”