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of Indian curies, money and several slaves: Manuel, a tall, black attendant, and a bodyguard. He shipped raw sugar from his plantation to the Southern wharves in Philadelphia. Frank liked him very much.

      “Why, Nancy Arabella[12],” he said to Mrs Cowperwood on arriving one Sunday afternoon, “you haven't grown an inch! I thought when you married that you were going to fatten up like your brother. But look at you! I swear to Heaven you don't weigh five pounds!”

      And he jounced her up and down by the waist, much to the perturbation of the children, who had never before seen their mother so familiarly handled.

      Henry Cowperwood was exceedingly interested in and pleased at the arrival of this prosperous relative; for twelve years before, when he was married, Seneca Davis had not taken much notice of him.

      “I tell you, Henry,” Seneca continued, “you have a rather nice place here.”

      And he looked at the main room of the three-story house with a critical eye.

      Since Henry had become teller the family had acquired a piano—a luxury in those days—brought from Europe. It was summer time, the windows were open, and the trees outside, with their widely extended green branches, were pleasantly visible shading the brick sidewalk. Uncle Seneca strolled out into the back yard.

      “Well, this is pleasant enough,” he observed, noting a large elm. “Where's your hammock? Don't you string a hammock here in summer? Down on my veranda at San Pedro I have six or seven.”

      “We hadn't thought of the hammock because of the neighbors, but it would be nice,” agreed Mrs. Cowperwood. “Henry will have to get one.”

      “I have two or three over at the hotel. My servants make them down there. I'll send Manuel over with them in the morning.”

      He tweaked Edward's ear, told Joseph, the second boy, he would bring him an Indian tomahawk, and went back into the house.

      “This is the lad that interests me,” he said, after a time, laying a hand on the shoulder of Frank. “What did you name him in full, Henry?”

      “Frank Algernon.”

      “Well, you might have named him after me. There's something to this boy. How would you like to come down to Cuba and be a planter, my boy?”

      “I'm not so sure that I'd like to,” replied the eldest.

      “Well, what have you against it?”

      “Nothing, except that I don't know anything about it.”

      “What do you know?”

      The boy smiled wisely. “Not very much, I guess.”

      “Well, what are you interested in?”

      “Money!”

      “Aha! Well, that's a good trait. And you speak like a man, too! We'll talk more about that later. Nancy, you're breeding a financier here, I think. He talks like one.”

      He looked at Frank carefully. There was real force in that sturdy young body—no doubt of it. Those large, clear gray eyes were full of intelligence. They indicated much and revealed nothing.

      “A smart boy!” he said to Henry. “I like him. You have a bright family.”

      Henry Cowperwood smiled dryly. This man, if he liked Frank, might do much for the boy. He might eventually leave him some of his fortune. He was wealthy and single.

      Uncle Seneca became a frequent visitor to the house—he and his negro bodyguard, Manuel, who spoke both English and Spanish, much to the astonishment of the children; and he took an increasing interest in Frank.

      “When that boy gets old enough to find out what he wants to do, I think I'll help him to do it,” he observed to his sister one day; and she told him she was very grateful. He talked to Frank about his studies, and found that he cared little for books. Grammar was an abomination. Literature was silly. Latin was of no use. History—well, it was fairly interesting.

      “I like bookkeeping and arithmetic,” the boy observed. “I want get to work. That's what I want to do.”

      “You're pretty young, my son,” observed his uncle. “How old are you? Fourteen?”

      “Thirteen.”

      “Well, you can't leave school before sixteen. You'll do better if you stay until seventeen or eighteen. It can't do you any harm. You won't be a boy again.”

      “I don't want to be a boy. I want to get to work.”

      “Don't go too fast, son. You'll be a man soon enough. You want to be a banker, do you?”

      “Yes, sir!”

      “Well, when the time comes, if everything is all right and you've behaved yourself and you still want to, I'll help you get a start in business. If I were you and were going to be a banker, I'd first spend a year or so in some good grain and commission house[13]. You'll learn a lot that you ought to know. And, meantime, keep your health and learn all you can.”

      He gave the boy a ten-dollar gold piece with which to start a bank-account.

      Chapter III

      When young Cowperwood was thirteen, he entered into his first business venture. Walking along Front Street one day, he saw an auctioneer's flag hanging out before a wholesale grocery[14] and from the interior came the auctioneer's voice:

      “What am I bid for this exceptional lot of Java coffee, twenty-two bags all told, which is now selling in the market for seven dollars and thirty-two cents a bag wholesale? What am I bid? The whole lot must go as one. What am I bid?”

      “Eighteen dollars,” suggested a trader standing near the door. Frank paused.

      “Twenty-two!” called another.

      “Thirty!” a third.

      “Thirty-five!” a fourth, and so up to seventy-five, less than half of what it was worth.

      “I'm bid seventy-five! I'm bid seventy-five!” called the auctioneer, loudly. “Any other offers? Going once at seventy-five; am I offered eighty? Going twice at seventy-five, and”—he paused, one hand raised dramatically. Then he brought it down with a slap in the palm of the other— “sold to Mr. Silas Gregory[15] for seventy-five. Make a note of that, Jerry,” he called to his red-haired, freckle-faced clerk beside him. Then he turned to another lot of grocery staples.

      Young Cowperwood was making a rapid calculation. If, as the auctioneer said, coffee was worth seven dollars and thirty-two cents a bag in the open market, and this buyer was getting this coffee for seventy-five dollars, he was making then and there eighty-six dollars and four cents. As he recalled, his mother was paying twenty-eight cents a pound.

      He drew nearer, and watched these operations closely. The starch, as he soon heard, was valued at ten dollars a barrel, and it only brought six. Some kegs of vinegar were knocked down at one-third their value, and so on. He began to wish he could bid; but he had no money, just a little pocket change. The auctioneer noticed him standing almost directly under his nose, and was impressed with the stolidity—solidity—of the boy's expression.

      “I am going to offer you now a fine lot of Castile soap—seven cases, no less—which, as you know, if you know anything about soap, is now selling at fourteen cents a bar. This soap is worth anywhere at this moment eleven dollars and seventy-five cents a case. What am I bid? What am I bid? What am I bid?”

      He was talking fast in the usual style of auctioneers, with much unnecessary emphasis; but Cowperwood was not impressed. He was already rapidly calculating for himself. Seven cases at eleven dollars and seventy-five cents would be worth just eighty-two dollars and twenty-five cents; and if it went at half—if it went at half—

      “Twelve dollars,” commented one bidder.

      “Fifteen,”

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