The latter, who had been a cent short in his cash the night before, gruffly replied that it would probably be June 1st. But, before the day was over, he, too, was forced to realize the heat and to speak of it. So, when his face began to assume the appearance of a greasy plank under a hydrant, he concluded that it might not be so great a compromise to his dignity for him to agree with his junior, and his looks showed him to be rapidly thawing. They managed to survive that day and the next and several others that followed. In the meantime the thermometer seemed bent, in fact, warped, upon beating all previous records, and the two sufferers watched the mercury climb, until it seemed to be trying to reach its Olympian namesake. The thought that the worst was to come served to increase their distress. It always does. Finally, the Old Book-keeper, who occupied a sort of oldest inhabitant position in the neighborhood, although he had always worked for a living, threw up the sponge and reluctantly admitted that, for so early in the season, it really beat all the weather he ever saw. The new assistant sympathized with the old man in his defeat, and went so far in his efforts to cheer him, as across the street to buy the beer, without first proposing to match for it. So affairs went on, nothing worthy of note transpiring, except, of course, the two now becoming warm friends. Every morning and again after lunch they would enter the office, take off their coats and everything else that Mr. Comstock might not object to, and drearily settle down to their work, always wondering if they would be able to stand it when summer really came. By this time, they had ceased to consult the thermometer, and the calendar was forgotten. Several pages that should have been torn from the latter remained there still: not enough air was stirring to move them. At last, one afternoon just as the new assistant had succeeded in opening his attenuated countenance wide enough to say, as usual—“I wonder what it will be when summer really”—the door was suddenly darkened by a portly form enveloped in a heavy overcoat and a confident manner that unmistakably stamped their wearer as the Boss, and a hearty voice exclaimed—“Well, this bracing weather is delightful after a hot summer on the Riviera!” The Old Book-keeper and the new assistant staggered to the door and looked out. The snow was falling thick and fast. ESTES BAKER. Knoxville, Tenn. A VENTURE IN MANUSCRIPT.