of watching the half-hearted simpletons who imagine they can rise
to the top by thinking more about themselves than they do about
the business. You, Mr. Gissing, have won my heart. You see
storekeeping as I do--a fine art, an absorbing passion, a
beautiful, thrilling sport. It is an art as lovely and subtle as
the theatre, with the same skill in wooing and charming the
public."

Gissing bowed, and drank Mr. Beagle's health, to cover his
astonishment. The aged merchant fixed him with a glittering eye.

"I can see that storekeeping is your genius in life. I can see
that you are naturally consecrated to it. My son is a good steady
fellow, but he lacks the divine gift. I am getting old. We need
new fire, new brains, in the conduct of this business. I ask you
to forgive the unlucky blunder we made lately, and devote
yourself to us."

Gissing was very much embarrassed. He wanted to say that if he
was going to consecrate himself to floorwalking, he would relish
a raise in salary; but old Beagle was so tremulous and kept
blowing his nose so loudly that Gissing doubted if he could make
himself heard.

"I want you to take a position as General Manager," said Mr.
Beagle, "with a salary of ten thousand a year."

He rose and threw open a mahogany door that led out of his own
sanctum. "Here is your office," he said.