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“Well,” said his father; “well, that’s an idea, anyhow.”

“I’ve had valets and carriages and luxuries all my life,” said Fitz. “I think I like them. But I don’t know–do I? I’ve never tried the other thing. I’m sure I don’t want to be an underpaid clerk always. But I am sure I want to try it on for a while.”

“I was planning,” said his father, “to take a car and run about the country with you and show you all the different enterprises that I’m interested in. I thought you’d make a choice, find something you liked, and go into it for a starter. If you’re any good you can go pretty far with me pulling for you. You don’t like that idea?”

“Not for now,” said Fitz. “I like mine better.”

“Do you want to live on what you earn?”

“If I can stand it.”

“You’ll be started with ten dollars a week, say. Can you do it?”

“What did grandpa start on?” asked Fitz.

“His board, two suits of clothes, and twenty-four dollars a year,” said William senior with a proud ring in his voice.

“And you?”

“I began at the bottom, too. That was the old-fashioned idea. Father was rich then. But he wanted me to show that I was some good.”

“Did grandpa pull for you, or did you have to find yourself?”

“Well,” said the father diffidently, “I had a natural taste for business. But,” and he smiled at his son, “I shouldn’t live on what you earn, if I were you. You needn’t spend much, but have a good time out of hours. You’ll find yourself working side by side with other sons of rich men. And you can bet your bottom dollar they don’t live on what they can earn. Unless you make a display of downright wealth you’ll be judged on your merits. That’s what you’re driving at, isn’t it?”

So they compromised on that point; and the next morning they went downtown and called upon Mr. Merriman, the great banker. He and Williams had been in many deals together, and on one historic occasion had supported prices and loaned so much ready money on easy terms as to avert a panic.

“John,” said Williams senior, “my son Fitz.”

“Well, sir,” said Merriman, only his eyes smiling, “you don’t look like a foreigner.”

“I’m not,” said Fitz stoutly.

“In that case,” said Merriman, “what can I do for you?”

“I want to be called James Holden,” said Fitz, “and to have a job in your office.”

Merriman listened to the reasons with interest and amusement. Then he turned to Williams senior. “May I drive him?” he asked grimly.

“If you can,” said Fitz’s father. And he laughed.

Finally, it was arranged that, in his own way, Fitz was to see the world.

V

Fitz’s experiment in finding himself and getting himself liked for himself alone was a great failure. He had not been in Mr. Merriman’s employ two hours before he found that he disliked long sums in addition, and had made friends with Wilson Carrol, who worked next to him. Indeed, Fitz made friends with everybody in the office inside of two weeks, and was responsible for a great deal of whispering and hanging out of back windows for a puff of smoke. Nobody but Mr. Merriman knew who he was, where he came from, or what his prospects were. Everybody liked him–for himself. Rich or poor, it must have been the same. His idea that character, if he had it, would tell in the long run proved erroneous. It told right away.

Wilson Carrol and half a dozen other clerks in the office were the sons of rich men, put to work because of the old-fashioned idea that everybody ought to work, and at the same time pampered, according to the modern idea, with comfortable allowances over and beyond their pay. With one or other of these young men for companion, and presently for friend, Fitz began to lead the agreeable summer life of New York’s well-to-do youth. He allowed himself enough money to keep his end up, but did not allow himself any especial extravagances or luxuries. He played his part well, appearing less well off than Carrol, and more so than young Prout, with whom he got into much mischief in the office. Whatever these young gentlemen had to spend they were always hard up. Fitz did likewise. If you dined gloriously at Sherry’s and had a box at the play you made up for it the next night by a chop at Smith’s and a cooling ride in a ferry-boat, say to Staten Island and back. Saturday you got off early and went to Long Island or Westchester for tennis and a swim, and lived till Monday in a luxurious house belonging to a fellow-clerk’s father, or were put up at the nearest country club.