“You are a politician, young man. You’ll wake up and find yourself in Congress, some fine day, unless your father goes back to newspaper work and writes some editorials in _your_ favor.” The boy had a pleasant smile, the colonel thought. “I have saved up some money, Colonel.” “Keep it. That’s the best advice I can give you. Go away instantly. Great Scott, youngster, you are in Wall Street now.” “Oh, I—I’m safe enough in this office, I guess,” retorted Carey. The famous leader of the stock market looked at him solemnly. The boy returned the look, imperturbably. Then Colonel Treadwell laughed, and Carey laughed back at him. “What are you doing to keep out of State’s prison?” asked Treadwell. “I’m a clerk in the office of the Federal Pump Company, third floor, upstairs. I have saved some money and I want to know what to do with it. I read an article in the _Sun_ the other day. It said you had advised people to put their savings into Suburban Trolley and how well they had fared.” “That was a year ago. Trolley has gone up 50 points since then.” “That shows how good the advice was. And you also said a young man should do something with his savings and not let them lie idle.” The young man looked straight into the little, twinkling, kindly eyes of the leader of the stock market. “How much money have you?” “I have two hundred and ten dollars,” replied the lad with an uncertain smile. He had felt proud of the magnitude of his savings in his own room; in this office he felt a bit ashamed of their insignificance. “Dear me,” said the millionaire speculator, very seriously, “that is a good deal of money. It’s a blame sight more’n I had, when I started in business. Got it with you?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, I’ll introduce you to my brother Wilson, who has charge of our customers. Come in, John.” “John” came in. His other name was Mellen. He was a slim, quiet-looking man of about five-and-fifty. His enemies said that he had made $1,000,000 for every year he had lived and had kept it. “Sit down, John,” said Colonel Treadwell, shaking hands with Mr. Mellen, “I’ll be back in a minute.” At the door he shook hands with two more visitors—a tall, ruddy-faced, white-haired, and white-whiskered man, Mr. Milton Steers, after-dinner speaker and self-confessed wit; and, incidentally, president of a railroad system; also Mr. D. M. Ogden, who looked like an English clergyman and was the owner of the huge Ogden Buildings in Wall Street. They had come to discuss the advisability of a new deal in “Trolley.” They represented, they and their associates, more than $500,000,000. But Colonel Treadwell made them wait while he escorted his new acquaintance to his brother’s room. “Wilse,” he said, “I’ve brought you a new customer, Mr. Carey.”