He went out to luncheon, and just as he was going into a restaurant some one spoke to him.  It was old man Colton.

“My dear Mr. Witherspoon,” said the old man, “come and have a bite to eat with me.  Ah, come on, now; no excuse.  Let’s go this way.  I know of a place that will just suit you.  This way.  I’m no hand for clubs—­they bore me; they are newfangled.”

The old man conducted him into a basement restaurant not noticeable for cleanliness, but strong with a smell of mutton.

“Now, suppose we try a little broth,” said the old man, when they had sat down.  “Two bowls of mutton broth,” he added, speaking to the waiter.  “Ah,” he went on, “you may talk about your dishes, but at noontime there is nothing that can touch broth.  And besides,” he added, in a whisper, “there’s no robbery in broth.  These restaurant fellows are skinners of the worst order.  I’ll tell you, my dear Mr. Witherspoon, everything teaches us to practice economy.  We must do it; it’s the saving clause of life.  Now, what could be better than this?  Go back to work, and your head’s clear.  My dear Mr. Witherspoon, if I had been a spendthrift, I should not only be a pauper—­I should have been dead long ago.”

He continued to talk on the virtues of economy.  “Won’t you have some more broth?”

“No, thank you.”

“Won’t you have something else?” he asked, in a tone that implied extreme fear.

“No, I’m not hungry to-day.”

This announcement appeared greatly to relieve the old man.  “Oh, you’ll succeed in life, my dear young man; but really you ought to come into the store with us.  It would do your father so much good; he would feel that he has a sure hold on the future, you understand.  You don’t know what a comfort Brooks is to me.  Why, if my daughter had married a man in any other line, I—­well, it would have been a great disappointment.  Are you going back to work now?”

“No; to the Press Club.”

“Why don’t you come to see us oftener?”

“Oh, I’m there often enough, I should think—­two or three times a week.”

“Yes, of course, but we are all so anxious that you should become interested in our work.  Don’t discourage yourself with the belief that a man brought up in the South is not a good business man.  I am from the South, my dear Mr. Witherspoon.”

They had reached the sidewalk, and the roar from the street impelled the old man to force his squeaky voice into a split shout.

“Southern man”—­He was bumped off by the passing throng, but he got back again and shouted:  “Southern man has just as good commercial ability as anybody.  Well, I must leave you here.”

CHAPTER XVI.

AN AROUSER OF THE SLEEPY.