After the arrival of the head “clarks” and stenographers at nine-forty-five, there ensued fifteen minutes of guarded conversation in front of the offices.  During this time the public issues of the day were settled and the nation’s policies outlined.  At ten o’clock the offices were formally opened, and at ten-thirty a reception was tendered to the managers who arrived dressed as for any well-conducted afternoon function.

To Mitchell, who was accustomed to the feverish, football methods of American business life, all this was vastly edifying and instructive; it was even soothing, although he was vaguely offended to note that passers-by avoided him as if fearful of contamination.

Upon entering 42-1/2 Threadneedle Street, he was halted by an imperious office-boy.  To him Louis gave his card with a request that it be handed to Mr. Peebleby, then he seated himself and for an hour witnessed a parade of unsmiling, silk-hatted gentlemen pass in and out of Mr. Peebleby’s office.  Growing impatient, at length, he inquired of the boy;

“Is somebody dead around here or is this where the City Council meets?”

“I beg pardon?” The lad was polite in a cool, superior way.

“I say, what’s the idea of the pall-bearers?”

The youth’s expression froze to one of disapproval and suspicion.

“I mean the parade.  Are these fellows Congress- or minstrel-men?”

His hearer shrugged and smiled vacuously, then turned away, whereupon Mitchell took him firmly by the arm.

“Look here, my boy,” he began.  “There seems to be a lot of information coming to both of us.  Who are these over-dressed gentlemen I see promenading back and forth?”

“Why—­they’re callers, customers, representatives of the firms we do business with, sir.”

“Is this Guy Fawkes Day?”

“No, sir.”

“Are these men here on business?  Are any of them salesmen, for instance?”

“Yes, sir; some of them.  Certainly, sir.”

“To see Mr. Peebleby about the new construction work?”

“No doubt.”

“So, you’re letting them get the edge on me.”

“I beg pardon?”

“Never mind, I merely wanted to assure you that I have some olive spats, a high hat, and a walking-stick, but I left them at my hotel.  I’m a salesman, too.  Now then let’s get down to business.  I’ve come all the way from America to hire an office-boy.  I’ve heard so much about English office-boys that I thought I’d run over and get one.  Would you entertain a proposition to go back to America and become my partner?”

The boy rolled his eyes; it was plain that he was seriously alarmed.  “You are ragging me, sir,” he stammered, uncertainly.

“Perish the thought!”

“I—­I—­Really, sir—­”

“I pay twenty-five dollars a week to office-boys.  That’s five ‘pun’ in your money, I believe.  But, meanwhile, now that I’m in London, I have some business with Mr. Peebleby.”  Mitchell produced an American silver dollar and forced it into the boy’s hand, whereupon the latter blinked in a dazed manner, then hazarded the opinion that Mr. Peebleby might be at leisure if Mr. Mitchell had another card.