He had charge of the check book, and he alone signed the firm's name outside of the partners.

"Rather young," one of them protested, until he looked into the boy's face, then he gave his consent; something better than years of experience and discretion are wanted where a scratch of a pen might mean financial ruin.
Breen had preceded him with but a nod to his clerks, and had disappeared into his private office--another erection of ground glass and mahogany.
Here the senior member of the firm shut the door carefully, and turning his back fished up a tiny key attached to a chain leading to the rear pocket of his trousers.

With this he opened a small closet near his desk--a mere box of a closet--took from it a squatty-shaped decanter labelled "Rye, 1840," poured out half a glass, emptied it into his person with one gulp, and with the remark in a low voice to himself that he was now "copper fastened inside and out"-- removed all traces of the incident and took up his morning's mail.
By this time the circle of chairs facing the huge blackboard in the spacious outer office had begun to fill up.

Some of the customers, before taking their seats, hurried anxiously to the ticker, chattering away in its glass case; others turned abruptly and left the room without a word.

Now and then a customer would dive into Breen's private room, remain a moment and burst out again, his face an index of the condition of his bank account.
When the chatter of the ticker had shifted from the London quotations to the opening sales on the Exchange, a sallow-faced clerk mounted a low step-ladder and swept a scurry of chalk marks over the huge blackboard, its margin lettered with the initials of the principal stocks.