“Hang on to it. What's in it?” “Some clothes and a purse containing about seventy dollars.” “That ought to pay you for carrying it and storage afterward,” said the president decisively. “What made you come here?” “I found this address in the purse,” said Randolph, producing it. “Is that all?” “Yes.” “And that's the only reason you came here, to find an owner for that bag?” “Yes.” The president disengaged himself from the counter. “I'm sorry to have given you so much trouble,” said Randolph concludingly. “Thank you and good-morning.” “Good-morning.” As Randolph turned away he remembered the advertisement for the night watchman. He hesitated and turned back. He was a little surprised to find that the president had not gone away, but was looking after him. “I beg your pardon, but I see you want a night watchman. Could I do?” said Randolph resolutely. “No. You're a stranger here, and we want some one who knows the city,--Dewslake,” he returned to the receiving teller, “who's taken Larkin's place?” “No one yet,” returned the teller, “but,” he added parenthetically, “Judge Boompointer, you know, was speaking to you about his son.” “Yes, I know that.” To Randolph: “Go round to my private room and wait for me. I won't be as long as your friend last night.” Then he added to a negro porter, “Show him round there.” He moved away, stopping at one or two desks to give an order to the clerks, and once before the railing to speak to a depositor. Randolph followed the negro into the hall, through a “board room,” and into a handsomely furnished office. He had not to wait long. In a few moments the president appeared with an older man whose gray side whiskers, cut with a certain precision, and whose black and white checked neckerchief, tied in a formal bow, proclaimed the English respectability of the period. At the president's dictation he took down Randolph's name, nativity, length of residence, and occupation in California. This concluded, the president, glancing at his companion, said briefly,-- “Well?” “He had better come to-morrow morning at nine,” was the answer. “And ask for Mr. Dingwall, the deputy manager,” added the president, with a gesture that was at once an introduction and a dismissal to both. Randolph had heard before of this startling brevity of San Francisco business detail, yet he lingered until the door closed on Mr. Dingwall. His heart was honestly full. “You have been very kind, sir,” he stammered. “I haven't run half the risks of that chap last night,” said the president grimly, the least tremor of a smile on his set mouth. “If you would only let me know what I can do to thank you,” persisted Randolph. “Trust the man that trusts you, and hang on to your trust,” returned the president curtly, with a parting nod.