"You seem so different from the others."
"Me! Oh, I take care of the money your gamblers win," replied
Peter, at which they both laughed, a spark of sympathy being
kindled between them.
Then, seeing the puzzled expression on the boy's face, he added
with a smile: "I'm Receiving Teller in a bank, one of the oldest
in Wall Street."
A look of relief passed over the young fellow's face.
"I'm very glad, sir," he said, with a smile. "Do you know, sir,
you look something like my own father--what I can remember of
him--that is, he was--" The lad checked himself, fearing he might
be discourteous. "That is, he had lost his hair, sir, and he wore
his cravats like you, too. I have his portrait in my room."
Peter leaned still closer to the speaker. This time he laid his
hand on his arm. The tumult around him made conversation almost
impossible. "And now tell me your name?"
"My name is Breen, sir. John Breen. I live with my uncle."
The roar of the dinner now became so fast and furious that further
confidences were impossible.
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