A Man And His Money

"Well? What can I do for you?" The speaker-a scrubby little man-wheeled in the rickety office chair to regard some one hesitating on his threshold. The tones were not agreeable; the proprietor of the diminutive, run-down establishment, "The St. Cecilia Music Emporium," was not, for certain well defined reasons, in an amiable mood that morning. He had been about to reach down for a little brown jug which reposed on the spot usually allotted to the waste paper basket when the shadow of the new-comer fell obtrusively, not to say offensively, upon him. It was not a reassuring shadow; it seemed to spring from an indeterminate personality. Mr. Kerry Mackintosh repeated his question more bruskly; the shadow (obviously not a customer, -no one ever sought Mr. Mackintosh's wares!) started; his face showed signs of a vacillating purpose. "A mistake! Beg pardon!" he murmured with exquisite politeness and began to back out, when a somewhat brutal command on the other's part to "shut that d-- door d-- quick, and not let any more d-- hot air out" arrested the visitor's purpose. Instead of retreating, he advanced. "I beg pardon, were you addressing me?" he asked. The half apologetic look had quite vanished. The other considered, muttered at length in an aggrieved tone something about hot air escaping and coal six dollars a ton, and ended with: "What do you want?