"Yes, he's a nice young man. It's a wonder
his father don't take him in his bank."
"Well, he may not be able to," said his brother. "He's only the cashier
there."
"That's right."
"Well, we'll give him a trial. I bet anything he makes good. He's a
likely-looking youth."
Henry got up and walked out into the main entrance looking into Second
Street. The cool cobble pavements, shaded from the eastern sun by the
wall of buildings on the east--of which his was a part--the noisy trucks
and drays, the busy crowds hurrying to and fro, pleased him. He looked
at the buildings over the way--all three and four stories, and largely
of gray stone and crowded with life--and thanked his stars that he
had originally located in so prosperous a neighborhood. If he had only
brought more property at the time he bought this!
"I wish that Cowperwood boy would turn out to be the kind of man I
want," he observed to himself, meditatively. "He could save me a lot of
running these days."
Curiously, after only three or four minutes of conversation with the
boy, he sensed this marked quality of efficiency. Something told him he
would do well.
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