He could undersell any other shopkeeper in New York because he got his salesmen for next to nothing.  They were a judicious selection from among his friends, the tramps.  Any man who could recall enough of his schooling to do a little sum in addition was eligible.  He was fed, clothed, tobaccoed, judiciously beered, watched all day while at work, and shut up at night in a fireproof, drink-proof cubicle.  The plan proved a brilliant success.  The little store downtown became a big one, and grew bigger and bigger, swallowing all the other stores in its block; and it was now ten years since the great Sixth Avenue department store, which could call itself the largest in New York, was opened under the benediction of the Hands.

Winifred had fancied, because of the balm which was making a fortune, that Peter Rolls, Sr., was some sort of a glorified chemist.  But Mr. Loewenfeld roared at this idea.  The Balm of Gilead was only one of the lucky hits in the drug department, in itself as big as a good-sized provincial store.  The Hands sold everything, and though the tramps were long ago dead or abolished, Peter Rolls still undersold every other store in New York.  How did he do it?  Well—­there were ways.  The hands without a capital H might tell, perhaps; but they did not talk much.  Peter Rolls never had any difficulty in obtaining or keeping as many of them as he wanted, and could get double the number if he liked.

“Does he still ‘work with his own hands?’” quoted Win at last, feeling half guilty, as if she ought not to ask questions about Peter’s father behind Peter’s back.  But the affairs of the Rolls family seemed to be public property.  Mr. Loewenfeld and Miss Seeker both laughed.

“I should love,” said the latter, “to see Ena Rolls’s face if her father did work!  She spells their name with an ’e’—­R-o-l-l-e-s—­and hopes the smart set on Long Island, where their new palace is, won’t realize they’re the Hands.  Isn’t it ridiculous?  Like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand.  She runs her father and mother socially.  I guess the old man hardly dares put his nose inside the store, except about once a year; and Ena and the old lady never buy a pin there.  As for the young fellow, they say he doesn’t bother:  hates business and wants to be a philanthropist or something outlandish on his own.  I should say to him, if he asked me:  ‘Charity begins at home.’”

Those last two sentences spoken by Miss Emma Seeker on Winifred Child’s first night in New York had as direct an effect upon the girl’s life as if the ringed hands had come down out of the sky and clutched her dress.  She did not attach much importance to the words at the time, except to think it snobbish of Miss Rolls and weak of her mother never to show themselves under the roof where their fortune was being piled up.  Also, she thought it disappointing of Peter junior not to “bother” about the business which had been his father’s life work.  But then Peter was altogether disappointing, as Miss Rolls (with an “e”) had disinterestedly warned her.