A slender young man, whose broad black mustache contrasted unpleasantly with the sallow whiteness of his face, dressed in the jauntiest costume of the period, and bearing in one hand a black cane with a large ivory handle, which looked, even in the distance, like a human leg, stood by the old gentleman’s side.  The old gentleman put down his pipe, seized the young man’s disengaged hand, and gazed affectionately at him (so the three observers thought).  Some conversation then took place between them, during which the old gentleman repeatedly pressed the young man’s hand, and sometimes reached up and softly patted him on the shoulder.  The young man appeared to receive the words and caresses of the old gentleman with a sullen indifference.  Several times he pettishly drew his hand away, and at last shook his head fiercely, folded his arms, and seemed (though the spectators could only conjecture that) to stamp the floor with his foot.  At this, the old gentleman bowed his head in his hands.  The young man held his defiant attitude unmoved, until, glancing out of the window, he saw for the first time that he was watched.  “With a jerk, he pulled down the curtain, and cut off a scene which the three observers had begun to find profoundly interesting.

“Well,” said Marcus Wilkeson, “though I have given up making calls as a business, I shall certainly take the New-Year’s privilege of dropping in on the venerable unknown over the way.”

“Two things are plain,” said Fayette Overtop.  “One is, that the pale, rascally looking young man is the old man’s son.  Now, I don’t suppose either of you will dispute that?” (Overtop paused a moment to receive and dispose of objections, but none were made.) “The other is, that the old fellow is immensely rich—­worth a million or two, maybe.  Perhaps you would like to argue that point.”  Overtop smiled, as if nothing would give him greater pleasure than to annihilate a few dozen opinions to the contrary.

“To save argument, as usual, we admit everything,” responded Wilkeson.  “But, pray condescend to tell us how you know this fine old boy to be superlatively rich.”

Overtop smiled upon his ignorant friends, and answered: 

“Because he wears a white cravat.  The man isn’t a clergyman, is he?  Do clergymen smoke pipes?  He isn’t a Quaker, is he?  Do Quakers, or those of them who indulge in white cravats, wear their coat collars turned down?  Consult your own experience, now, and tell me whether you ever saw anybody but a very rich man (with the exceptions already stated) wearing a white cravat.  I leave it to your candor.”

Wilkeson and Maltboy nodded their heads, as if stricken dumb with conviction.

Overtop, gratified with this ready acquiescence, modestly went on to say that he would not undertake to explain the phenomenon; that task he left to some more philosophical mind.  He contented himself with making a humble record of facts.