“That’s pretty much, seeing the way times are, but I guess he’s worth it.  He’s certainly done everything we’ve expected, and more.  He’s cut out for this business.”

“What does he say about it?  Do you ever hear him say whether he’s satisfied?”

“Oh, he likes it pretty much, I guess.  You see him as much as I do.”

“Well, we’ll make it five hundred.  That fellow wouldn’t make a bad partner in this business some day.  He has the real knack for it.  You see that he gets the five hundred dollars with a word from both of us.”

So the night before Christmas, as Cowperwood was looking over some way-bills and certificates of consignment preparatory to leaving all in order for the intervening holiday, George Waterman came to his desk.

“Hard at it,” he said, standing under the flaring gaslight and looking at his brisk employee with great satisfaction.

It was early evening, and the snow was making a speckled pattern through the windows in front.

“Just a few points before I wind up,” smiled Cowperwood.

“My brother and I have been especially pleased with the way you have handled the work here during the past six months.  We wanted to make some acknowledgment, and we thought about five hundred dollars would be right.  Beginning January first we’ll give you a regular salary of thirty dollars a week.”

“I’m certainly much obliged to you,” said Frank.  “I didn’t expect that much.  It’s a good deal.  I’ve learned considerable here that I’m glad to know.”

“Oh, don’t mention it.  We know you’ve earned it.  You can stay with us as long as you like.  We’re glad to have you with us.”

Cowperwood smiled his hearty, genial smile.  He was feeling very comfortable under this evidence of approval.  He looked bright and cheery in his well-made clothes of English tweed.

On the way home that evening he speculated as to the nature of this business.  He knew he wasn’t going to stay there long, even in spite of this gift and promise of salary.  They were grateful, of course; but why shouldn’t they be?  He was efficient, he knew that; under him things moved smoothly.  It never occurred to him that he belonged in the realm of clerkdom.  Those people were the kind of beings who ought to work for him, and who would.  There was nothing savage in his attitude, no rage against fate, no dark fear of failure.  These two men he worked for were already nothing more than characters in his eyes—­their business significated itself.  He could see their weaknesses and their shortcomings as a much older man might have viewed a boy’s.

After dinner that evening, before leaving to call on his girl, Marjorie Stafford, he told his father of the gift of five hundred dollars and the promised salary.

“That’s splendid,” said the older man.  “You’re doing better than I thought.  I suppose you’ll stay there.”

“No, I won’t.  I think I’ll quit sometime next year.”