“Yes; everything is settled.”

“This is fine, uncle,” said Sam cordially. “I thought you were going to drive me out into the snow.”

“Do you remember meeting an Englishman named Lord Tilbury at dinner at my house?”

Sam did indeed. His Lordship had got him wedged into a corner after the meal and had talked without a pause for more than half an hour.

“He is the proprietor of the Mammoth Publishing Company, a concern which produces a great many daily and weekly papers in London.”

Sam was aware of this. Lord Tilbury’s conversation had been almost entirely autobiographical.

“Well, he is returning to England on Saturday on the Mauretania, and you are going with him.”

“Eh?{16}”

{16}

“He has offered to employ you in his business.”

“But I don’t know anything about newspaper work.”

“You don’t know anything about anything,” Mr. Pynsent pointed out gently. “It is the effect of your English public-school education. However, you certainly cannot be a greater failure with Lord Tilbury than you have been with me. That wastepaper basket over there has been in my office only four days, and already it knows more about the export and import business than you would learn if you stayed here fifty years.”

Sam made plaintive noises. Fifty years, he considered, was an overstatement.

“I concealed nothing of this from Lord Tilbury, but nevertheless he insists on engaging you.”

“Odd,” said Sam. He could not help feeling a little flattered at this intense desire for his services on the part of a man who had met him only once. Lord Tilbury might be a bore, but there was no getting away from the fact that he had that gift without which no one can amass a large fortune—that strange, almost uncanny gift for spotting the good man when he saw him.

“Not at all odd,” said Mr. Pynsent. “He and I are in the middle of a business deal. He is trying to persuade me to do something which at present 

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