Glad to earn his little salary, which was only enough for decency of living, free from envy and ambition, he was bound by a kind of feudal tenure to his employer.
As he looked at the merchant and observed his hopeless listlessness, he thought of his age, his family, and of the frightful secrets hidden in the huge books that were every night locked carefully into the iron safe, as if they were written all over with beautiful romances instead of terrible truths--and the eyes of the patient plodder were so blurred that he could not see, and turning his head that no one might observe him, he winked until he could see again.
A young man entered the store hastily.

The porter dropped the paper and sprang up; the boys came expectantly forward.

Even the book-keeper stopped to watch the new-comer as he came rapidly toward the office.

Only the head of the house sat unconcernedly at his desk--his long, pale, bony fingers drumming on the port-folio--his hard eyes looking out at the messenger.
"This way," said the book-keeper, suddenly, as he saw that he was going toward Mr.Newt's room.
"I want Mr.Newt." "Which one ?" "The young one, Mr.Abel Newt." "He is not here." "Where is he ?" "I don't know." Before the book-keeper was aware the young man had opened the door that communicated with Mr.Newt's room.

The haggard face under the gray hair turned slowly toward the messenger.