his private office. A servant asked for Ed's card, and got the letter instead. Ed was sent for a moment later, and found Mr. Vanderbilt alone, with the letter—open—in his hand.
"Pray sit down, Mr.—er—"
"Jackson."
"Ah—sit down, Mr. Jackson. By the opening sentences it seems to be a letter from an old friend. Allow me—I will run my eye through it. He says—he says—why, who is it?" He turned the sheet and found the signature. "Alfred Fairchild—hm—Fairchild—I don't recall the name. But that is nothing—a thousand names have gone from me. He says—he says—hm—hm—oh, dear, but it's good! Oh, it's rare! I don't quite remember it, but I seem to—it'll all come back to me presently. He says—he says—hm—hm—oh, but that was a game! Oh, spl–endid! How it carries me back! It's all dim, of course—it's a long time ago—and the names—some of the names are wavery and indistinct—but sho', I know it happened—I can feel it! and lord, how it warms my heart, and brings back my lost youth! Well, well, well, I've got to come back into this work-a-day world now—business presses and people are waiting—I'll keep the rest for bed to-night, and live my youth over again. And you'll thank Fairchild for me when you see him—I used to call him Alf, I think—and you'll give him my gratitude for what this letter has done for the tired spirit of a hard-worked man; and tell him there isn't anything that I can do for him or any friend of his that I won't do. And as for you, my lad, you are my guest; you can't stop at any hotel in New York. Sit where you are a little while, till I get through with these people, then we'll go home. I'll take care of you, my boy—make yourself easy as to that."
Ed stayed a week, and had an immense time—and never suspected that the Commodore's shrewd eye was on him, and
