"Say you can do ’em. That’s the way to pull it off. Look at me. Never was in a Turkish bath in my life till I went to an employment-office in Chicago. When the old girl in charge asked me if I had been, I said I’d been born in one. Got the job right off, and watched what the other guys did till I’d learned the trick. There’s always some nice chap that ’ll show you the ropes. Gee! The worst they can do is to bounce you. All employers is punk. Treat ’em like punk and you’ll get on." With a view to this procedure I was at the Bureau of Domestic and Business Intelligence by half past nine, entering, unfortunately, with the downcast air of the employer who is punk, instead of the perky self-assertion which I soon began to notice as the proper attitude of those in search of work. Miss Bryne’s establishment occupied a floor in one of the older office-buildings a little to the south of Washington Square. Having ascended in the lift, you found yourself, just inside the narrow doorway, face to face with a young lady seated at a desk, whose duty it was to ask the first questions and take the first notes. She was a pretty young lady, bright-eyed, blond, with a habit of cocking her head in a birdlike way as she composed her lips to a receptive smile. She so composed them, and so cocked her head, as I appeared on the threshold, awkward and terrified. "Such as—?" I knew what she meant by the questioning look and the encouraging smile of the bright eyes. "I’m—I’m hoping to find a job," I stammered to her obvious astonishment. "Oh!" It was a surprised little crow. "To find one!" "Yes, miss; to find one." "Of—of what sort?" "Clerical work," I said, boldly. She bent her head over her note-book. "Your name?" "Jasper Soames." "Age?" "Thirty-one." "Occupation?" "I’ve told you. Any kind of clerical work. I suppose that that means writing—and—and copying—and that sort of thing, doesn’t it?" She glanced up from her writing. "Is that what you’ve done?" I nodded. "Where? Have you any references?" I confessed my lack of references, stating that I had just come over from France, where I had worked with a firm whose name would not carry weight in America. "What did they do—the firm?" I answered, wildly, "Carpets." Another young lady was passing, tall, graceful, distinguished, _air de duchesse_, carrying a notebook and pencil. "Miss Gladfoot," my interlocutrice murmured, "won’t you ask Miss Bryne to step here?" Miss Bryne having stepped there, I found myself face to face with a competent woman of fifty or so, short, square, square-faced, and astute. She also had a pencil and note-book in her hand, and, seeing me, looked receptive, too, though remaining practical and business-like. While the young lady at the desk explained me as far as she had been able to understand my object, delicacy urged me out of earshot. I had, therefore, not heard what passed when Miss Bryne came forward to take charge of the situation.