He had a serious call of his own, a call to sell good books at good profits, and the call expressed itself in his clothes and his appearance. He seemed older, graver, took his frock-coat into daily wear, used only black in ties and socks, and had the air of one, who, if not a clergyman, was often in their company, though as a fact he was more frequently with commercial travellers, and in the hotels at night his repertoire of smoke-room stories came no less gaily from his tongue than of old. And about this time his moustache began to droop like a curtain over his resolute mouth. Stewart came into the office one day with a parcel under his arm. He had seen neither Sam nor his office lately, and stared wide-eyed at both. Carter, partner in the printing business, still occupied the dilapidated office where Sam had found him, but the Branstone Publishing Company had ampler premises next door, in a building which Sam rented as warehouse for his stock. Gilt lettering on its windows called the attention of the passer-by to the Branstone + Classics. Sam still looked after detail, and when Stewart came in was correcting proofs of a tear-off calendar with a Bible at his elbow. “I suppose,” said Stewart, “that you _are_ Branstone, but why disguise yourself as a Scottish Elder?” “I am in my usual clothes,” said Sam, rather huffed. “If the clothes are the man, this is no place for me. Do you often use the Bible in your business hours?” He often did, not only to check with a quite beautiful precision the texts on his calendars by the Authorised Version, but in another way, and one which seemed to show, if it showed anything, that he looked upon the Bible with intimate familiarity. Perhaps one mascot was the vellum-bound copy of the “Social Evil” pamphlet and the other the Bible. At any rate, his price code used in the office was made up this way: M Y F A T H E R G O D 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 20 New clerks initiated into that code used to wonder at it for a day. Then they got used to it. “I’m correcting the proofs of this calendar,” Sam explained. “You see, it’s a shaving calendar. You hang this up by your shaving-mirror and study the text for the day while you shave.” “I don’t,” said Stewart. “I go to the barber’s. My hand’s unsteady in the morning. But I see the idea. First read the text, then wipe your razor on it.” “That is not the idea. See.” He pointed to the card of the calendar, and read solemnly: “A text a day Drives care away.” “It wouldn’t drive my sort of care away,” said Stewart. “Mine’s serious.” “There can be no trouble too serious for you to find consolation in this calendar.”