“Mr. Wingfield, I am getting on in years, now,” he said, “and I have concluded to retire as soon as you have someone for my place; the sooner, sir, the more agreeable to me.”

“What!  What put this idea into your head?” John Wingfield, Sr. snapped.  Often of late he had thought that it was time he got a younger man in Peter’s place.  But he did not like the initiative to come from Peter; not on this particular morning.

“Why, just the notion that I should like to rest.  Yes, rest and play a little, and grow roses and salads,” said the old secretary, respectfully.

“Roses and salads!  What in—­where are you going to grow them?”

There was something so serene about Peter that his highly imperious, poised employer found it impertinent, not to say maddening.  Peter had a look of the freedom of desert distances in his eyes already.  A lieutenant was actually radiating happiness in that neutral-toned sanctum of power, particularly this morning.

“I am going out to Little Rivers, or to some place that Jack finds for me, where I am to have a garden and work—­or maybe I better call it potter around—­out of doors in January and February, just like it was June.”

Peter spoke very genially, as if he were trying to win a disciple on his own account.

“With Jack!  Oh!” gasped John Wingfield, Sr.  He struck his closed fist into the palm of his hand in his favorite gesture of anger, the antithesis of the crisp rubbing of the palms, which he so rarely used of late years.  Rage was contrary to the rules of longevity, exciting the heart and exerting pressure on the artery walls.

“Yes, sir,” answered Peter, pleasantly.

“Well—­yes—­well, Jack has decided to go back!” Then there rose strongly in John Wingfield, Sr.’s mind a suspicion that had been faintly signaled to his keen observation of everything that went on in the store.  “Are any other employees going?” he demanded.

“Yes, sir, I think there are; not immediately, but as soon as he finds a place for them.”

“How many?”

“I don’t think it is any secret.  About fifty, sir.”

“Name some of them!”

“Joe Mathewson, that big fellow who drives a warehouse truck, and Burleigh;” and Peter went on with those of the test proof list whom he knew.

Every one of them had high standing.  Every one represented a value.  While at first John Wingfield, Sr. had decided savagely that Mortimer should remain at his pleasure, now his sense of outraged egoism took an opposite turn.  He could get on without Mortimer; he could get on if every employee in the store walked out.  There were more where they came from in a city of five millions population; and no one in the world knew so well as he how to train them.

“Very good, Peter!” he said rigidly, as if he were making a declaration of war.  “Fix up your papers and leave as soon as you please.  I will have one of the clerks take your place.”