Pitcher， confidential clerk in the office of HarveyMaxwell， broker， allowed a look of mild interest andsurprise to visit his usually expressionless countenancewhen his employer briskly entered at half past nine incompany with his young lady stenographer. With a snappy“Good-morning， Pitcher，” Maxwell dashed at his desk asthough he were intending to leap over it， and then plungedinto the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting therefor him.
The young lady had been Maxwell’s stenographer fora year. She was beautiful in a way that was decidedlyunstenographic. She forewent the pomp of the alluringpompadour. She wore no chains， bracelets or lockets. Shehad not the air of being about to accept an invitation toluncheon. Her dress was grey and plain， but it fitted herfigure with fidelity and discretion. In her neat black turbanhat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. On this morningshe was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamilybright， her cheeks genuine peachblow， her expression ahappy one， tinged with reminiscence.
Pitcher， still mildly curious， noticed a difference inher ways this morning. Instead of going straight into theadjoining room， where her desk was， she lingered， slightlyirresolute， in the outer office. Once she moved over byMaxwell’s desk， near enough for him to be aware of herpresence.
The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man；it was a busy New York broker， moved by buzzing wheelsand uncoiling springs.
“Well—what is it？ Anything？” asked Maxwell sharply.
His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on hiscrowded desk. His keen grey eye， impersonal and brusque，flashed upon her half impatiently.
“Nothing，” answered the stenographer， moving awaywith a little smile.
“Mr. Pitcher，” she said to the confidential clerk， “did Mr.
Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging anotherstenographer？”
“He did，” answered Pitcher. “He told me to get anotherone. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to sendover a few samples this morning. It’s 9.45 o’clock， and nota single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum hasshowed up yet.”
“I will do the work as usual， then，” said the young lady，“until some one comes to fill the place.” And she went toher desk at once and hung the black turban hat with thegold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place.
He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattanbroker during a rush of business is handicapped for theprofession of anthropology. The poet sings of the “crowdedhour of glorious life.” The broker’s hour is not onlycrowded， but the minutes and seconds are hanging to allthe straps and packing both front and rear platforms.
And this day was Harvey Maxwell’s busy day. The tickerbegan to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape， the desktelephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men beganto throng into the office and call at him over the railing，jovially， sharply， viciously， excitedly. Messenger boys ranin and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks inthe office jumped about like sailors during a storm. EvenPitcher’s face relaxed into something resembling animation.
On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslidesand snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes， and thoseelemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature inthe broker’s offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against thewall and transacted business after the manner of a toedancer. He jumped from ticker to ’phone， from desk todoor with the trained agility of a harlequin.
In the midst of this growing and important stress thebroker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe ofgolden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrichtips， an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads aslarge as hickory nuts， ending near the floor with a silverheart. There was a self-possessed young lady connectedwith these accessories； and Pitcher was there to construeher.
