"And what can we do for you, Mr. Trimmer?" he asked after the usual inanities of greeting had been exchanged. "Take lunch with me," invited Mr. Trimmer, endeavoring to beam, his heavy, down-drooping gray mustache remaining immovable in front of the deeply-chiseled smile that started far above the corners of his nose and curved around a display of yellow teeth. "I have just learned that you have taken over the business, and I wish as quickly as possible to form with the son the same cordial relations which for years I enjoyed with the father." Bobby looked him contemplatively in the eye, but had no experience upon which to base a picture of his father and Mr. Trimmer enjoying perpetually cordial relations with a knife down each boot leg. "Very sorry, Mr. Trimmer, but I am engaged for lunch." "Dinner, then--at the Traders' Club," insisted Mr. Trimmer, who never for any one moment had remained entirely still, either his foot or his hand moving, or some portion of his body twitching almost incessantly. Inwardly Bobby frowned, for, so far, he had found no points about his caller to arouse his personal enthusiasm; and yet it suddenly occurred to him that here was doubtless business, and that it ought to have attention. His father, under similar circumstances, would find out what the man was after. He cast a hesitating glance at his friend. "Don't mind me, Bobby," said Starlett briskly. "You know I shall be compelled to take dinner with the folks to-night." "At about what time, Mr. Trimmer?" Bobby asked. "Oh, suit yourself. Any time," responded that gentleman eagerly. "Say half-past six." "The Traders'," mused Bobby. "I think the governor put me up there four or five years ago." "I seconded you," the other informed him; "and I had the pleasure of voting for you just the other day, on the vacancy made by your father. You're a full-fledged member now." "Fine!" said Bobby. "Business suit or----" "Anything you like." With again that circular smile behind his immovable mustache, Mr. Trimmer backed out of the room, and Bobby, dropping into a chair, turned perplexed eyes upon his friend. "What do you suppose he wants?" he inquired. "Your eye-teeth," returned Jack bluntly. "He looks like a mucker to me." "Oh, I don't know," returned Bobby, a trifle uneasily. "You see, Jack, he isn't exactly our sort, and maybe we can't get just the right angle in judging him. He's been nailed down to business all his life, you know, and a fellow in that line don't have a chance, as I take it, to cultivate all the little--well, say artificial graces." "Your father wasn't like him. He was as near a thoroughbred as I ever saw, Bobby, and he was nailed down, as you put it, all _his_ life."