So, in six weeks you see a handsome furnished set of offices down in the Wall Street neighborhood, with “The Golconda Gold Bond and Investment Company” in gilt letters on the door.  And you see in his private room, with the door open, the secretary and treasurer, Mr. Buckingham Skinner, costumed like the lilies of the conservatory, with his high silk hat close to his hand.  Nobody yet ever saw Buck outside of an instantaneous reach for his hat.

And you might perceive the president and general manager, Mr. R. G. Atterbury, with his priceless polished poll, busy in the main office room dictating letters to a shorthand countess, who has got pomp and a pompadour that is no less than a guarantee to investors.

[Illustration:  Busy in the main office room dictating letters to a shorthand countess.]

There is a bookkeeper and an assistant, and a general atmosphere of varnish and culpability.

At another desk the eye is relieved by the sight of an ordinary man, attired with unscrupulous plainness, sitting with his feet up, eating apples, with his obnoxious hat on the back of his head.  That man is no other than Colonel Tecumseh (once “Parleyvoo”) Pickens, the vice-president of the company.

“No recherche rags for me,” I says to Atterbury, when we was organizing the stage properties of the robbery.  “I’m a plain man,” says I, “and I do not use pajamas, French, or military hair-brushes.  Cast me for the role of the rhinestone-in-the-rough or I don’t go on exhibition.  If you can use me in my natural, though displeasing form, do so.”

“Dress you up?” says Atterbury; “I should say not!  Just as you are you’re worth more to the business than a whole roomful of the things they pin chrysanthemums on.  You’re to play the part of the solid but disheveled capitalist from the Far West.  You despise the conventions.  You’ve got so many stocks you can afford to shake socks.  Conservative, homely, rough, shrewd, saving—­that’s your pose.  It’s a winner in New York.  Keep your feet on the desk and eat apples.  Whenever anybody comes in eat an apple.  Let ’em see you stuff the peelings in a drawer of your desk.  Look as economical and rich and rugged as you can.”

I followed out Atterbury’s instructions.  I played the Rocky Mountain capitalist without ruching or frills.  The way I deposited apple peelings to my credit in a drawer when any customers came in made Hetty Green look like a spendthrift.  I could hear Atterbury saying to victims, as he smiled at me, indulgent and venerating, “That’s our vice-president, Colonel Pickens . . . fortune in Western investments . . . delightfully plain manners, but . . . could sign his check for half a million . . . simple as a child . . . wonderful head . . . conservative and careful almost to a fault.”

[Illustration:  “That’s our vice-president, Colonel Pickens.”]