“Pound those off, Miss Stanley.  Jim”—­this to the silently industrious bookkeeper—­“how much have we got at the Marine?”

After swift search in a little black book the bookkeeper looked up—­“Seven thousand six hundred-twenty, sir,” he replied respectfully.

“I’ll give you enough to make out ten thousand to honor old Joe’s draft,” ruminated Mitchell, twirling the safe-knobs deftly.  “You take it round and deposit it.  On your way back jack Stevens up about those plows.  Tell him if he don’t get ’em round on time he loses one big customer—­and that’s me.”  Counting out the required amount, he stuffed the slight remainder in his pocket, slammed shut the safe, signed his letters briskly, and took up his hat.  “Come on, Thompson, we’ll be off.”

“Now then,” he resumed, in the elevator, “I’ve got to go down to slip No. 4, to see about some stuff I’m shipping to Mexico.  Walk or ride?  It’s only a little ways.”

“Let’s walk, then,” said Steve.  “You can tell me about the boats as we go.  That’s what takes my eye.  What’s that big one coming in?”

“Rotterdammer.  The one behind her is a coaster—­Menacho, Puig & Co.  Look up stream—­there’s a big Cunarder just swinging out.  Hello, there’s the Rosenthal and Montoya stuff now!”

A string of heavily-laden drays moved slowly down the rock-paved street.  “Lights out!  Protect yourself!” thought Steve.  “I feel a presentiment that there’ll be a heavy transportation bill on that stuff and that my friend won’t have enough cash to settle it.  Perhaps he will accept a temporary accommodation from me.  Thompson, he pays the freight—­nit!”

This unworthy suspicion proved unfounded.  As they watched the rumbling wagons they were joined by one of businesslike appearance and swift step.

“Going down, Mitchell?  That’s your Argentine freights, I suppose?  At least, I recognize your foreman.”

Mitchell introduced him:  Mr. Archibald, of the Bowring and Archibald line, in the coastwise and southern trade.

“Just going down to your place, Archie.  We were going to walk, but if you’re in a hurry——­”

“Not at all.  Have a cigar?” said the pseudo-Archibald urbanely.

“You can show my young friend over the boats, if you will,” said Mitchell.  “Rank inlander, Thompson.  Rather look at a boat than eat.  Been talking boat, boat, boat to me ever since we left the office.”

“Happy to do so,” said the merchant-mariner.  “You’d better take a little trip with us, Mr. Thompson—­say a run down to Havana.  Any friend of Mr. Mitchell’s——­”

A young man came tearing across the street at a great rate.  “Mitchell!” he shouted.  “Mitchell!  Look here!” He thrust a telegram into Mitchell’s hand.  “Just reached me by A.D.T. from the Carlton.  Let me have some money, will you?  About three thousand.  Just got time to catch the next Pennsylvania train and make connections at Baltimore.”