"We'll all put a bet on you," encouraged Stanley Rogers. "More, we'll help. We'll all get married and send our wives around to open accounts with you." In spite of the serious business intentions, the luncheon which followed was the last the city saw of Bobby Burnit for three days. Be it said to his credit that he had accomplished his purpose when he returned. He had brought reluctant Jack Starlett back with him, and together they walked into the John Burnit Store. "New office fitted up yet, Johnson?" asked Bobby pleasantly. "Yes, sir," replied Johnson sourly. "Just a moment, Mr. Burnit," and from an index cabinet back of him he procured an oblong gray envelope which he handed to Bobby. It was inscribed: _To My Son, Upon the Fitting-Out of New Offices_ With a half-embarrassed smile, Bobby regarded that letter thoughtfully and carried it into the luxurious new office. He opened it and read it, and, still with that queer smile, passed it over to Starlett. This was old John Burnit's message: "I have seen a business work up to success, and afterward add velvet rugs and dainty flowers on the desk, but I never saw a successful business start that way." Bobby looked around him with a grin. There _was_ a velvet rug on the floor. There were no flowers upon the mahogany desk, but there _was_ a vase to receive them. For just one moment he was nonplussed; then he opened the door leading to the dingy apartment occupied by Messrs. Johnson and Applerod. "Mr. Johnson," said he, "will you kindly send out and get two dozen pink carnations for my room?" Quiet, big Jack Starlett, having loaded and lit and taken the first long puff, removed his pipe from his lips. "Bully!" said he. CHAPTER III OLD JOHN BURNIT'S ANCIENT ENEMY POINTS OUT THE WAY TO GRANDEUR Mr. Johnson had no hair in the very center of his head, but, when he was more than usually vexed, he ran his fingers through what was left upon both sides of the center and impatiently pushed it up toward a common point. His hair was in that identical condition when he knocked at the door of Bobby's office and poked in his head to announce Mr. Silas Trimmer. "Trimmer," mused Bobby. "Oh, yes; he is the John Burnit Store's chief competitor; concern backs up against ours, fronting on Market Street. Show him in, Johnson." Jack Starlett, who had dropped in to loaf a bit, rose to go. "Sit down," insisted Bobby. "I'm conducting this thing all open and aboveboard. You know, I think I shall like business." "They tell me it's the greatest game out," commented Starlett, and just then Mr. Trimmer entered. He was a little, wiry man as to legs and arms, but fearfully rotund as to paunch, and he had a yellow leather face and black eyes which, though gleaming like beads, seemed to have a muddy cast. Bobby rose to greet him with a cordiality in no degree abashed by this appearance.