"Well, what's the matter now?" Mr. Wintermuth inquired, as the local underwriter seated himself. "Who do you think is gone now?" said Cuyler, abruptly. "Who?" demanded his superior officer. "Jenkinson--and Hammond, Dow, and Company." "Gone!" repeated the President, slowly. The brokers in question were known to be on the most friendly terms with the company, and it was generally supposed that the first choice of most of their business went to the Guardian. "Gone! What do you mean? Nothing has happened to either of those people! What are you talking of?" "I mean they're gone, so far as the Guardian is concerned. We've taken as much as ten thousand a year from each of those offices. And now O'Connor's got them." The President looked at him in silence. "I knew something was the matter, and to-day I saw O'Connor and Jenkinson at lunch, laughing and talking as familiar as though they'd been friends for years. It's no use, sir--he's going after every really good broker that we've got attached to us." "But the Salamander can't take care of all their business. Why, those two firms must do business with nearly every office on the Street, anyway." "The Salamander will take all the best of the business we get now, or most of it, and help them out, I suppose, on a lot of tough risks that I've never been willing to write. O'Connor's a plunger, you know, when he's got a gambling company back of him. It looks to me as if we'd only get what he left--targets, and big lines where Jenkinson and Hammond Dow have enough to go round." Mr. Cuyler's oldest friend had never seen him more troubled than at this moment. So deep, in fact, was his gloom that the President put aside his own concern to try to reassure his old counterman. In this he succeeded not at all; Mr. Cuyler's dejection was settled. "What about a branch manager in place of O'Brien?" inquired Mr. Wintermuth at length, thinking at least to change the subject, and hoping to touch a brighter theme. Mr. Cuyler's face darkened still further, if such a thing were possible. "Nothing doing," he said inelegantly but comprehensively. "Hasn't Mr. Gunterson--?" the President began, but he stopped short. "What's that?" he asked sharply. "What were you going to say?" "I guess I'd better not say it," responded the local underwriter with deliberation. "Go ahead," said his chief. "Well, then," the other answered, "I was going to say 'To hell with Gunterson!'" Mr. Wintermuth leaned back in his chair, with his eyes fixed on his subordinate. "Cuyler," he said, "Mr. Gunterson is your superior officer, and that was an entirely improper thing for you to say. But I've known you, Cuyler, for forty years, and I don't mind telling you that that is exactly what I have been wanting to say about Mr. Gunterson for the last three weeks." A rueful smile broke through the gloom of both.