and wait five seconds until I reach them, and an
obliging landlord who lets me use his telephone.

Mawkum, my chief draftsman--when you have
only one it is best to label him "Chief" to your
clients; they think the others are off building bridges
for foreign governments, or lunching at Delmonico's
with railroad presidents--my chief draftsman, I say,
occupies the room opening into mine. His outlook
is a brick wall decorated with windows, behind which
can be seen various clerks poring over huge ledgers,
a section of the roof topped with a chimney, and in
the blue perspective the square, squat tower of the
Produce Exchange in which hangs a clock. Both of
these connecting rooms open on the same corridor, a
convenient arrangement when clients wish to escape
without being seen, or for the concealing of bidders
who are getting plans and specifications for the same
tenders, especially when two of them happen to turn
up at the same moment.

Mawkum manages this, and with such adroitness
that I have often seen clients, under the impression
that the drafting-room was full, sit patiently in my
office and take their turn while he quietly munches
his sandwich behind closed panels--an illusion sustained
by a loud "Good-morning" from my chief
addressed to the circumambient air, followed by the
slamming of the corridor door. When I remonstrate
with Mawkum, insisting that such subterfuges are