Evidently this young man was a favorite, for, as he passed along, many a face, worn by business and care, brightened as he smiled and spoke; many a countenance stamped with the trade-mark, preoccupied and hard, relaxed in a kindly recognition as he bowed and went by; and more than one found time, even in that busy whirl, to glance for a moment after him, or to remember him with a pleasant feeling, at least till the pavement had been crossed on which they met,—­a long space at that hour of the day, and with so much more important matters—­Bull and Bear, rise and fall, stock and account—­claiming their attention.

Evidently a favorite, for, turning off into one of the side streets, coming into his father’s huge foundry, faces heated and dusty, tired, stained, and smoke-begrimed, glanced up from their work, from forge and fire and engine, with an expression that invited a look or word,—­and look and word were both ready.

“The boss is out, sir,” said one of the foremen, “and if you please, and have got the time to spare, I’d like to have a word with you before he comes in.”

“All right, Jim! say your say.”

“Well, sir, you’ll likely think I’m sticking my nose into what doesn’t concern me.  ’Tain’t a very nice thing I’ve got to say, but if I don’t say it I don’t know who in thunder will; and, as it’s my private opinion that somebody ought to, I’ll just pitch in.”

“Very good; pitch in.”

“Very good it is then.  Only it ain’t.  Very bad, more like.  It’s a nasty mess, and no mistake! and there’s the cause of it!” pointing his brawny hand towards the door, upon which was marked, “Office.  Private,” and sniffing as though he smelt something bad in the air.

“You don’t mean my father!” flame shooting from the clear eyes.

“Be damned if I do.  Beg pardon.  Of course I don’t.  I mean the fellow as is perched up on a high stool in that there office, this very minute, poking into his books.”

“Franklin?”

“You’ve hit it.  Franklin,—­Abe Franklin,—­that’s the ticket.”

“What’s the matter with him? what has he done?”

“Done? nothing! not as I know of, anyway, except what’s right and proper.  ’Tain’t what he’s done or’s like to do.  It’s what he is.”

“And what may that be?”

“Well, he’s a nigger! there’s the long and short of it.  Nobody here’d object to his working in this place, providing he was a runner, or an errand-boy, or anything that it’s right and proper for a nigger to be; but to have him sitting in that office, writing letters for the boss, and going over the books, and superintending the accounts of the fellows, so that he knows just what they get on Saturday nights, and being as fine as a fiddle, is what the boys won’t stand; and they swear they’ll leave, every man of ’em, unless he has his walking papers,—­double-quick too.”

“Very well; let them.  There are other workmen, good as they, in this city of New York.”