Failing to find any face he recognized, Jack approached a group
around the ticker, and inquired for the head of the firm. The
answer came from a red-cheeked, clean-shaven, bullet-headed,
immaculately upholstered gentleman--(silk scarf, diamond horse-
shoe stick-pin, high collar, cut-away coat, speckled-trout
waistcoat--everything perfect)--who stood, paring his nails in
front of the plate-glass window overlooking the street, and who
conveyed news of the elder Breen's whereabouts by a bob of his
head and a jerk of his fat forefinger in the direction of the
familiar glass door.
Breen sat at his desk when Jack entered, but it was only when he
spoke that his uncle looked up;--so many men swung back that door
with favors to ask, that spontaneous affability was often bad
policy.
"I received your letter, Uncle Arthur," Jack began.
Breen raised his eyes, and a deep color suffused his face. In his
heart he had a sneaking admiration for the boy. He liked his
pluck. Strange, too, he liked him the better for having left him
and striking out for himself, and stranger still, he was a little
ashamed for having brought about the revolt.
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