woke up. He glanced about at the exquisitely furnished office, everything mahogany, the chairs upholstered in black leather. Expensive, original paintings hung upon the wall; and the warm red velvet carpet on the floor seemed to cast a spell of peaceful calm over the entire room. Finally his eye wandered to Barney's desk, piled almost ceiling-high with letters and litter, the natural alluvium of a busy day, the one bit of chaos in that otherwise well-ordered office.
Dan Burnett whistled softly.
"What's the matter, Barney, old man?" he drawled. "Turning into a machine?"
Barney smiled wistfully.
"I seem to be narrowing down to just that," said he.
"What's the matter? Are you money mad like all the rest of New York?"
"No," was the reply, "I work, not for money, but simply because it takes my mind from other things. Somewhere I have read an old proverb about not looking backward when you put your hand to the plow. But the old saying is not complete. To it should be added not to look forward either."
The tone in which the words were uttered left no doubt of the fact that there was something bearing heavily on Barney Creighton's mind.
"Just what do you mean by that?" asked Dan presently.
"That I have put my hand to the plow, that I look neither forward nor backward. The past is over; the future will take care of itself. In the meantime, I have my work." Barney Creighton leaned forward
