"Well, sir, and what are you spying about for? You're not a director in the bank!"
Mr. James looked up, astonished.
"Got a headache, I suppose, from drinking with that New York tyke they sent us yesterday!"
"Well, sir, when it comes to old madeira"—
"I earned it, I bought it, and I can drink it, too. And as for your Wall Street whippersnappers that haven't pedigree enough to get a taste for wine, and drink champagne, and don't know an honest man when they see one—it's so seldom"—
"Seriously, what do you suppose he wanted with the gold?"
"I don't know, sir, and I don't care. But since you're spying round, come in!" and Mr. Bowdoin led his son into the vault. "There, sir, there's the confounded box," tapping with his cane the old chest that lay on the top shelf.
"I see, sir," said Mr. James, taking his cue.
"And as for its contents, the firm of James Bowdoin's Sons are responsible. Perhaps you'd like to poke your nose in there?"
