empty typewriters loomed between this railedoff reception room and the private sanctums beyond. The Thatcher stenographic force was out to lunch. Mr. Thatcher, however, might possibly be in, the hard-faced lady grudgingly admitted. She sent Harold's note, prepared by his father before leaving Sanford, in by a red-headed messenger boy, reluctant to rise from his perusal of a flamboyant magazine called "Secret Society Scandals."
A few minutes later the boy reappeared with the information, very surprising to the telephone lady, that Mr. Thatcher would see the young gentleman at once. The office boy leading the way, Harold wove back through the empty typewriter desks to the center of the three private offices in the rear. His guide, turned very angelic and respectful, held the door open and Harold passed through.
He had met his uncle only twice before in his life, the last meeting having occurred five years previously on the occasion of Harold's Grandpa Amos Thatcher's death in Xenia, Ohio, at the age of ninety-three.
Peter Thatcher, a short man, but very stocky of body and rugged of face, arose from his chair and, greeting his nephew cordially, invited him to take the visitor's chair by the big, bare, shiny flat-top desk. This came as somewhat of a shock to Harold. He had been
