He flushed with gratification, but, after a moment’s respectful hesitation, shook his head.

“Thank you very much, sir,” he replied, “but I wouldn’t care to do it.  I really wouldn’t!”

Though I am fond of the man, his obstinacy nettled me.

“Look here!” I cried.  “I’m offering you an unusual chance.  You had better think twice before you decline such an opportunity to make something of yourself.  If you don’t take it you’ll probably remain what you are as long as you live.  Seize it and you may do as well as I have.”

Hastings smiled faintly.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” he repeated.  “I’m grateful to you for your interest; but—­I hope you’ll excuse me—­I wouldn’t change places with you for a million dollars!  No—­not for ten million!”

He blurted out the last two sentences like a schoolboy, standing and twisting his notebook between his fingers.

There was something in his tone that dashed my spirits like a bucket of cold water.  He had not meant to be impertinent.  He was the most truthful man alive.  What did he mean?  Not willing to change places with me!  It was my turn to flush.

“Oh, very well!” I answered in as indifferent a manner as I could assume.  “It’s up to you.  I merely meant to do you a good turn.  We’ll think no more about it.”

I continued to think about it, however.  Would not change places with me—­a fifty-dollar-a-week clerk!

Hastings’ pointblank refusal of my good offices, coming as it did hard on the heels of my own realization of failure, left me sick at heart.  What sort of an opinion could this honest fellow, my mere employee—­dependent on my favor for his very bread—­have of me, his master?  Clearly not a very high one!  I was stung to the quick—­chagrined; ashamed.

* * * * *

It was Saturday morning.  The week’s work was practically over.  All of my clients were out of town—­golfing, motoring, or playing poker at Cedarhurst.  There was nothing for me to do at the office but to indorse half a dozen checks for deposit.  I lit a cigar and looked out the window of my cave down on the hurrying throng below.  A resolute, never-pausing stream of men plodded in each direction.  Now and then others dashed out of the doors of marble buildings and joined the crowd.

On the river ferryboats were darting here and there from shore to shore.  There was a bedlam of whistles, the thunder of steam winches, the clang of surface cars, the rattle of typewriters.  To what end?  Down at the curb my motor car was in waiting.  I picked up my hat and passed into the outer office.

“By the way, Hastings,” I said casually as I went by his desk, “where are you living now?”

He looked up smilingly.

“Pleasantdale—­up Kensico way,” he answered.

I shifted my feet and pulled once or twice on my cigar.  I had taken a strange resolve.