He turned from contemplation of the wet street, and looked at Blair Mellon, senior member of the firm, who had come in from his private office. He was nearing seventy, thin, stooped, irascible. Nothing seemed to please him. His beady eyes shifted from one employee to another, as he walked slowly. He had made a success of business, but a wreck of himself. The boys of the firm called him “Caucus,” because of the fact that once a week he would hold a caucus in the office, at which time he would impress upon them the fact that the firm was everything, and that nothing else mattered. He would invite suggestions from department heads, and when an idea did not please him he would fly into a rage. James Eaton Legg mildly suggested at one of the caucuses that the firm supply each bookkeeper with a fountain pen, in order to economize on lost motions—and nearly lost his job. Not because of trying to increase the efficiency of the bookkeeping department, but because fountain pens cost money. All the firm mail came to Blair Mellon’s office, and it was his delight to distribute it. Just now he had several letters which he was passing out. He walked past James, stopped. James was looking at the street again. The old man scowled at the letters in his hand, one of which was addressed to James Eaton Legg. It bore the imprint of a Chicago law firm. Blair Mellon did not believe that a bookkeeper should waste his time in looking out of the window, but just now he couldn’t think of a fitting rebuke; so he placed the letter on James Legg’s desk and went on. James Legg’s mild blue eyes contemplated the name of the law firm on the envelope. It all looked so very legal that James wondered what it might all mean. He drew out the enclosure and read it carefully. Then he removed his glasses, polished them carefully, and read it again. Then he propounded inelegantly, but emphatically— “Well, I’ll be ——!” Blair Mellon had come back past the desk just in time to hear this exclamation. He stopped short and stared at James. “Mr. Legg!” he said curtly. “You evidently forget the rule against profanity in this office.” But James Legg ignored everything, except his own thoughts. “If that don’t beat ——, what does?” he queried. Blair Mellon stared aghast. This was downright mutiny. He struggled for the proper words with which to rebuke this young man. “Say, Caucus,” said James, giving Mellon the nickname he had never heard before, “where do they raise cattle?” “Were you speaking to me, sir?” demanded Mellon. James realized what he had said, and for a moment his face flushed. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Mellon.” “I should think you would, sir. Such language!” It seemed that all work had ceased in the office. Not even a telephone bell rang. “Have you any excuse for speaking in such a manner?” demanded the old man, conscious that every one had heard.