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Updated: September 3, 2025
Both my partners and our segundo were awaiting me, the bookkeeper had all accounts in hand, and the profits of the year were enough to turn ordinary men's heads. But I sounded a note of warning, that there were breakers ahead, though none of them took me seriously until I called for the individual herd accounts.
So back by the water-front, where he spent a pleasant and interesting forenoon. At one o'clock there were still no signs of Mitchell. So Steve, Mahomet-like, sought his office. The mise-en-scene was admirable. A well-littered desk, two 'phones, code-book, directory, typewriter, file-books, a busy bookkeeper, a fair stenographer no detail was omitted.
"Yes; Samuel A. Simpson. Generally called Sammy for short. I was his bookkeeper and corresponding clerk." "Maybe you're just the man I want to see," I said. "Do you know anything about Mr. Holtzmann's private affairs in the East?" "In Brooklyn?" "Yes." Sammy Simpson hesitated for a moment. "Maybe I do," he replied, with a shrewd look in his eyes. "Is there anything to be made out of it?"
IT was an afternoon in April. My chief bookkeeper, one of my stenographers, Bender, and myself were hard at work at my Broadway factory amid a muffled turmoil of industry. There were important questions of credit to dispose of and letters to answer. I was taking up account after account, weighing my data with the utmost care, giving every detail my closest attention.
Dyckman held his peace as long as he dared; in point of fact he did not speak until he saw his superiors rushing blindly into the pit digged for their feet by the astute young tyrant of the pipe foundry. If they could have fallen without carrying him with them, it is conceivable that the bookkeeper might have remained dumb.
It was advisable, however, to inform the proprietor of the hotel that the Earl's denunciation of Dale as a pilferer of luggage was based on a complete misunderstanding of the facts. With that object in view he entered the office; another surprise awaited him there. A lady bookkeeper, casting an appraising eye over his motoring garments, asked instantly: "Are you Mr.
The MacMorroghs' bookkeeper, a man named Merriam who is at present in Copah, and whose deposition I have had taken before a justice of the peace was detailed to win Frisbie over to the change of route no difficult thing, since the change was for the better. But Merriam's part was chiefly to keep Frisbie from finding out anything about Ford's mine; which he did. Am I making it clear?"
Cartwright admitted that to get the message would be some relief. By and by his bookkeeper came in. "Direct cablegram from Davies, sir." Cartwright took the form and frowned. The message was not from Rimouski and ran: "Delayed Peter; passing Quebec." "Awkward, sir," Gavin remarked sympathetically. "Very awkward," said Cartwright. "Davies needed all the time he's lost.
"Orde!" said he sharply. Bob disentangled himself from his chair. "Look there," said the bookkeeper, pointing a long and nervous finger at three of the tags he held in his hand. "There's three errors." He held out for inspection the original sealers' report which he had dug out of the files. Bob looked at the discrepant figures with amazement.
This setter had a quality, not over-common with members of his grand breed; a trait which linked his career pathetically with that of a livery-plug. He would hunt for anybody. He went through his day's work, in stubble or undergrowth, with the sad conscientiousness of an elderly bookkeeper.
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