The President and his young subordinate looked at one another. Even Mr. Wintermuth, who for some years past had given little attention to the details of the local business, knew that the firm in question was one of high standing. "Of One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street?" Smith asked. "Yes. You know them? They have an agency, then?" Mr. Whitehill responded. "They certainly have," replied the other. "They are as desirable agents as there are up town, and they represent the Essex of England, the Austrian National, and," he glanced at his chief, "the Salamander of New York." Mr. Wintermuth found no words. "Now, Mr. Whitehill," said Smith, "they are the people we want as branch managers. Our interests would be safe in their hands. But to take us and do us justice they would probably have to resign one of the companies they now represent. Do you think your influence with them is sufficient to get them to do that?"' Mr. Whitehill smiled somewhat grimly. "My boy," he said, "I don't like to extol my personal influence; but if I asked Evans and Jones anything within the bounds of reason and they declined to do it, I admit that I should be surprised--very much surprised." This was the reason why, on a busy corner of the Street, only a week later, two men came to a stop face to face, the elder regarding the younger with a malignity that was indifferently concealed. "Well, how's the boy underwriter?" said a sneering voice. "You think you turned a pretty trick when you took my branch manager, eh?" "I told you we'd have to get back at you," the other replied. "But," he added, "I should hardly think it would be a subject you'd care to discuss." The blood came into the face of the first speaker. "Well, I do, just the same," he said; "and I want to tell you that you've gone too far. You've made a personal matter of ordinary competition. All right--have it as you like. But you take it from me, this fight's just started, and I'm going to see it through, and I'll get you and your Guardian yet." "Is that all you wish to say?" Smith queried in a level tone. "Yes," said O'Connor, shortly; "that's all. Remember it." And he turned toward the office of the Salamander. CHAPTER XVIII "27 Deerfield Street.