That day Whimple called on Tommy Watson, famed as the peer of auctioneers. To those who counted among his friends and acquaintances, and they were as numerous as the wise "I-told-you-so's" on the day after an election or a prize fight, Tommy was always an inspiration and a delight. His long rambling store, with its wonderful stock of furniture, books, nick-nacks, pictures, all that goes to add zest to the life of the bargain-hunters and auction regulars, was a gathering-place for all classes. Tommy knew and was respected by the men whose names meant power and money; he was beloved by many a wage-earner for the help he gave in the all-important problems of home furnishing, and he was the idol of one William Adolphus Turnpike. Whimple lost no time in preliminaries. "I've got an office boy, Tommy," he said, "and----" "One William Adolphus Turnpike, to wit," Tommy broke in. "The same; he's quite a character, Tommy." "A good lad though," said the auctioneer, "and a friend of mine." "He says you know what he wants to be, and that you think he's bughouse." Tommy laughed. "He spends an hour here every morning," he said. "What!" "Turns up as regular as the clock at about fifteen minutes to eight, and stays until he has just time to get to the office on the stroke of nine." There was a long pause, each man regarding the other thoughtfully. It was Tommy who relieved the situation. "So far as I know," he said slowly, "he has confided in no one but myself and one other regarding his plans. He's only a boy; he may change his mind any day. But I don't think it. I never knew any one, man, woman, or child, so earnest and determined." "You know how I'm situated, Tommy; mighty little yet but hope--and, thank God, I've never lost that. It's really a shame, Tommy, paying him the princely salary of two dollars per, but I need him. Tommy, if you think it best not to tell, don't." Tommy understood. "It might help," he said, "and I can depend upon you to keep silence. Come along." He led the way to the back of the store, where his bachelor apartments were situated--a bedroom and a library--a most curious library, for Tommy was an omnivorous reader and particularly given to romances. In one corner of the room was a small bookcase with perhaps fifty books carefully arranged; a little desk and an arm-chair. "That's his corner," said Tommy abruptly; "look at the books." Whimple looked over the titles rapidly, then more closely. "Plays," he murmured, "the lives of actors, more plays, _The Comedian, Garrick, Nell Gwynn_," then turning to Tommy and raising his voice, "he wants to be an actor?" "Yep." "But many boys think that--almost every boy thinks that." "But not the way this boy does." "Yes, but can he read these, Tommy? I never heard any one murder English like William does. Yet he does it so winningly--that's the word, I think--that any jury would acquit him. And his slang--uh!" He shrugged his shoulders.