en-de  The Romanace of a Busy Broker by O. Henry Medium
"Die Romanze eines beschäftigten (Börsen-)Maklers" von O. Henry (Die vier Millionen)
Pitcher, Prokurist im Büro von Harvey Maxwell, Makler, erlaubte einem Anflug von mildem Interesse und Überraschung seine normalerweise ausdruckslosen Gesichtszüge zu besuchen, als sein Arbeitgeber zügigen Schrittes um halb zehn die Firma mit seiner jungen Stenografin betrat. Mit einem kurzen "Guten Morgen, Pitcher," hetzte er zu seinem Schreibtisch, so als ob er beabsichtigte über ihn zu springen und stürzte sich auf den großen Haufen Briefe und Telegramme, die dort auf ihn warteten.

Die junge Dame war seit einem Jahr Maxwells Stenografin. Sie war schön auf eine entschieden unstenografische Weise. Sie verzichtete auf den Pomp einer attraktiven Hochsteckfrisur. Sie trug keine Ketten, Armbänder oder Medaillons. Sie wirkte nicht, als sei sie bereit eine Einladung zum Mittagessen anzunehmen. Ihr Kleid war grau und einfach, aber es passte wie angegossen und war doch zurückhaltend. In ihrem ordentlichen schwarzen Turbanhut war der goldgrüne Flügel eines Aras. An diesem Morgen war sie sanft und strahlte schüchtern. Ihre Augen leuchteten verträumt, ihre Wangen waren natürlich pfirsichfarben angehaucht, ihr Ausdruck glücklich, erfüllt von angenehmen Erinnerungen.

Pitcher, weiterhin leicht neugierig, bemerkte einen Unterschied in ihrer Art an diesem Morgen. Anstatt geradewegs in den Nebenraum zu gehen, wo ihr Schreibtisch war, blieb sie ein wenig unentschlossen im Vorzimmer. Einmal ging sie an Maxwells Schreibtisch vorbei, nahe genug, dass er ihre Anwesenheit bemerkte.

Die Maschine, die am Schreibtisch saß, war nicht länger ein Mann, sondern es war ein beschäftigter New Yorker Makler, angetrieben von surrenden Rädern und schnellenden Federn.

"Ja - was gibt es?" "Irgendetwas?" fragte Maxwell scharf. Seine geöffnete Post lag wie eine Anhäufung von Bühnenschnee auf seinem überfüllten Schreibtisch. Sein scharfer grauer Blick, unpersönlich und schroff, glitt beinahe ungeduldig über sie.

"Nichts," sagte die Stenografin, und entfernte sich mit einem kleinen Lächeln.

"Mr. Pitcher," sagte sie zu dem Prokuristen, "hat Mr. Maxwell gestern etwas über das Einstellen einer anderen Stenografin gesagt?"

"Doch, das hat er," antwortete Pitcher. "Er sagte mir, ich solle eine andere besorgen. Ich informierte gestern Nachmittag die Agentur, dass sie heute Morgen eine Auswahl schicken sollen. Es ist 9.45 Uhr und kein einziger Florentiner und kein Stück Ananaskaugummi hat sich bis jetzt gezeigt."

Dann werde ich wie immer die Arbeit erledigen, bis jemand kommt um die Stelle zu übernehmen," sagte die junge Dame. Und sie ging auf der Stelle zu ihrem Schreibtisch und hängte den schwarzen Turbanhut mit dem goldgrünen Araflügel an den gewohnten Platz.

Er, dem der Anblick eines geschäftigen Maklers aus Manhattan während des Handelansturms vorenthalten blieb, war für den Beruf der Anthropologie benachteiligt. Der Dichter besingt die "übervolle Stunde des ruhmreichen Lebens". Des Maklers Stunde ist nicht nur übervoll, sondern die Minuten und Sekunden hängen an allen Gurten und packen beides voll, sowohl die vordere als auch die hintere Plattform.

Und dieser Tag war Harvey Maxwells arbeitsreicher Tag. Der Fernschreiber begann ruckartig seine ungleichmäßigen Papierstreifen abzurollen, und das Telefon auf dem Schreibtisch hatte chronische Brummattacken. Männer drängten sich in das Büro, um ihm über das Geländer freundlich, scharf, bösartig, aufgeregt zuzurufen. Botenjungen rannten rein und raus mit Nachrichten und Telegrammen. Die Büroangestellten sprangen herum wie Seemänner während eines Sturms. Sogar Pitchers Gesicht lockerte sich zu etwas Ähnlichem wie eine Regung.

An der Börse gab es Orkane und Erdrutsche und Schneestürme und Gletscher und Vulkane, und alle diese elementaren Störungen wiederholten sich im Kleinen in dem Maklerbüro. Maxwell schob seinen Stuhl gegen die Wand und wickelte die Geschäfte nach Art eines Tänzers, der auf Spitzen tanzt. Er sprang vom Fernschreiber zum Telefon, vom Schreibtisch zur Tür mit der Geschmeidigkeit eines geübten Possenreißers.

Inmitten dieses wachsenden und bedeutenden Stresses bemerkte der Makler eine hochgerollte goldene Haarsträhne unter einer nickenden Kappe aus Samt und Straußenfedern, ein Überwurf aus Seehundfellimitat und eine Kette aus Perlen, so groß wie Hickorynüsse, die in Bodennähe mit einem silbernen Herz endete. Es war eine selbstbewusste junge Dame, die mit diesen Accessoires verbunden war; und Pitcher war dabei sie zu instruieren.

"Dame von der Agentur für Stenografen, um sich über die Stelle zu informieren," sagte Pitcher.

Maxwell dreht sich halb herum, die Hände voller Papiere und Lochstreifen.

"Welche Stelle?" fragte er, die Stirn runzelnd.

"Die Stelle als Stenografin," sagte Pitcher. "Sie haben mir gestern aufgetragen sie anzurufen und heute Morgen jemanden vorbeizuschicken."

"Sie verlieren Ihren Verstand, Pitcher," sagte Maxwell. "Warum sollte ich Ihnen so eine Anweisung gegeben haben?" Miss Leslie hat Anlass zur vollen Zufriedenheit gegeben während des Jahres, in dem sie hier war. Der Platz gehört ihr, solange sie sich entscheidet, ihn zu behalten. Es gibt hier keine offene Stelle, meine Dame. Widerrufen Sie diesen Auftrag bei der Agentur, Pitcher, und bringen Sie mir von denen keinen mehr herein."

Das silberne Herz verließ schwingend und sich selbst unabhängig gegen die Büromöbel schlagend das Büro, als es indigniert verschwand. Pitcher nahm sich einen Moment, um gegenüber dem Buchhalter zu bemerken, dass der "alte Mann" jeden Tag auf dieser Welt zerstreuter und vergesslicher zu werden schien.

Der Ansturm und die Geschwindigkeit des Geschäfts wuchsen heftiger und schneller. Sie knallten ein halbes Dutzend Aktien, in denen Maxwells Kunden große Kapitalanleger waren, auf den Fußboden, Aufträge zum Kaufen und Verkaufen kamen und gingen so schnell wie im Schwalbenflug. Einige seiner eigenen Anteile waren gefährdet und der Mann arbeitete wie eine hochtourige, empfindliche, starke Maschine - bis aufs Höchste angespannt, die mit Hochgeschwindigkeit läuft, genau, niemals zögernd, mit dem richtigen Wort, der richtigen Entscheidung und Tat, bereit und prompt wie ein Uhrwerk. Aktien und Obligationen, Kredite und Hypotheken, Gewinnspannen und Wertpapiere - hier war eine Welt der Finanzen, und es gab keinen Platz für die menschliche Welt oder die Welt der Natur.

Als sich die Zeit des Mittagessen näherte, kam eine leichte Flaute in den Aufruhr.

Maxwell stand an seinem Schreibtisch seine Hände voller Telegramme und Mitteilungen, ein Füllfederhalter über seinem rechten Ohr und sein Haar hing in ungeordneten Strähnen über seiner Stirn. Sein Fenster war offen, damit der geliebte Pförtner Frühling ein wenig Wärme durch die erwachenden Register der Erde bringt.

Und durch das Fenster kam ein umherstreifender - vielleicht ein verlorener - Duft - ein feiner, süßer Duft von Flieder, der den Makler für einen Moment regungslos bleiben ließ. Denn dieser Duft gehörte zu Miss Leslie; es war ihr eigener und nur ihrer.

Der Duft brachte sie lebhaft, fast spürbar vor ihn. Die Finanzwelt schrumpfte plötzlich zu einem Körnchen. Und sie war im Nebenraum, zwanzig Schritte entfernt.

"Bei Georg, ich werde es jetzt tun", sagte Maxwell halblaut, "Ich werde sie jetzt fragen. Ich frage mich, warum ich es nicht schon längst getan habe."

Er hastete in das innere Büro mit der Hast eines Short Calls, der den Kauf decken soll. Er stürmte an den Schreibtisch der Stenografin.

Sie schaute zu ihm mit einem Lächeln auf. Ein zartes Rosa schlich sich auf ihre Wange und ihre Augen waren freundlich und aufrichtig. Maxwell lehnte sich mit einem Ellbogen auf ihren Schreibtisch. Er umklammerte noch flatternde Papiere mit beiden Händen und der Stift war über seinem Ohr.

"Miss Leslie," fing er hastig an, "Ich kann nur einen Moment entbehren. Ich möchte in diesem Moment etwas sagen. Wollen Sie meine Frau werden? Ich habe keine Zeit gehabt, Ihnen auf die übliche Weise den Hof zu machen, aber ich liebe Sie wirklich. Sprechen Sie schnell, bitte - diese Männer schlagen alles aus Union Pacific heraus."

"Oh, worüber redest du?" rief die junge Dame aus. Sie erhob sich und starrte ihn mit großen Augen an.

"Verstehen Sie nicht?" sagte Maxwell unruhig. "Ich möchte, dass Sie mich heiraten. Ich liebe Sie, Miss Leslie. Ich wollte es Ihnen sagen und ich schnappte mir eine Minute als die Dinge etwas langsamer wurden. Gerade jetzt rufen sie mich ans Telefon. Sagen Sie Ihnen, sie sollen eine Minute warten, Pitcher. Möchten Sie, Miss Leslie?"

Die Stenografin verhielt sich sehr merkwürdig. Zuerst schien sie von Erstaunen überwältigt; dann flossen Tränen aus ihren staunenden Augen; und dann lächelte sie heiter durch sie hindurch und einer ihrer Arme glitt zärtlich um den Hals des Börsenmaklers.

"Ich weiß jetzt," sagte sie, sanft. "Es ist dieses alte Geschäft, das dir derzeit alles andere aus deinem Kopf vertrieben hat." Zuerst bin ich erschrocken. Erinnerst du dich nicht, Harvey? Wir wurden gestern Abend um 20 Uhr in der kleinen Kirche um die Ecke getraut."
unit 1
The Romance of a Busy Broker by O. Henry (The Four Million).
1 Translations, 3 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
unit 4
The young lady had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year.
1 Translations, 3 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
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She was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic.
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She forewent the pomp of the alluring pompadour.
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She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets.
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She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon.
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Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion.
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In her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw.
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On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant.
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Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning.
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Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence.
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"Well—what is it?
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Anything?"
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asked Maxwell sharply.
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His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk.
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His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently.
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"Nothing," answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile.
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"He did," answered Pitcher.
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"He told me to get another one.
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I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning.
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The poet sings of the "crowded hour of glorious life."
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And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
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Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams.
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The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
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Even Pitcher's face relaxed into something resembling animation.
2 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months ago
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Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe dancer.
1 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 2 weeks ago
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He jumped from ticker to 'phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
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"Lady from the Stenographer's Agency to see about the position," said Pitcher.
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Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape.
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"What position?"
1 Translations, 3 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
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he asked, with a frown.
1 Translations, 3 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
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"Position of stenographer," said Pitcher.
1 Translations, 3 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
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"You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning."
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"You are losing your mind, Pitcher," said Maxwell.
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"Why should I have given you any such instructions?
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Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months ago
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The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
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There's no place open here, madam.
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unit 58
The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster.
2 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months ago
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Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
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When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
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For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only.
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The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
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The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck.
2 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months ago
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And she was in the next room—twenty steps away.
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"By George, I'll do it now," said Maxwell, half aloud.
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"I'll ask her now.
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I wonder I didn't do it long ago."
1 Translations, 3 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
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He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
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He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
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She looked up at him with a smile.
3 Translations, 3 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months, 1 week ago
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A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank.
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Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk.
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He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.
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"Miss Leslie," he began hurriedly, "I have but a moment to spare.
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I want to say something in that moment.
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Will you be my wife?
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I haven't had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you.
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Talk quick, please—those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific."
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"Oh, what are you talking about?"
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exclaimed the young lady.
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She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed.
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"Don't you understand?"
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said Maxwell, restively.
2 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 10 months ago
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"I want you to marry me.
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I love you, Miss Leslie.
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I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit.
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They're calling me for the 'phone now.
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Tell 'em to wait a minute, Pitcher.
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Won't you, Miss Leslie?"
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The stenographer acted very queerly.
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"I know now," she said, softly.
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"It's this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time.
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I was frightened at first.
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Don't you remember, Harvey?
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We were married last evening at 8 o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner."
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Omega-I • 5927  translated  unit 18  10 months, 2 weeks ago

The Romance of a Busy Broker by O. Henry (The Four Million).
Pitcher, confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at half past nine in company with his young lady stenographer. With a snappy "Good-morning, Pitcher," Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.

The young lady had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year. She was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She forewent the pomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion. In her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence.

Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence.

The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs.

"Well—what is it? Anything?" asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently.

"Nothing," answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile.

"Mr. Pitcher," she said to the confidential clerk, did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?"

"He did," answered Pitcher. "He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed 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 to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place.

He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology. The poet sings of the "crowded hour of glorious life." The broker's hour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms.

And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day. The ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher's face relaxed into something resembling animation.

On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker's offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe dancer. He jumped from ticker to 'phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin.

In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her.

"Lady from the Stenographer's Agency to see about the position," said Pitcher.

Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape.

"What position?" he asked, with a frown.

"Position of stenographer," said Pitcher. "You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning."

"You are losing your mind, Pitcher," said Maxwell. "Why should I have given you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There's no place open here, madam. Countermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don't bring any more of 'em in here."

The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the "old man" seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.

The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell's customers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were imperilled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine—strung to full tension, going at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready and prompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities—here was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.

When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar.

Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. His window was open, for the beloved janitress Spring had turned on a little warmth through the waking registers of the earth.

And through the window came a wandering—perhaps a lost—odour—a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only.

The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she was in the next room—twenty steps away.

"By George, I'll do it now," said Maxwell, half aloud. "I'll ask her now. I wonder I didn't do it long ago."

He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.

She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.

"Miss Leslie," he began hurriedly, "I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you be my wife? I haven't had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please—those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific."

"Oh, what are you talking about?" exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed.

"Don't you understand?" said Maxwell, restively. "I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. They're calling me for the 'phone now. Tell 'em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won't you, Miss Leslie?"

The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker's neck.

"I know now," she said, softly. "It's this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time. I was frightened at first. Don't you remember, Harvey? We were married last evening at 8 o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner."