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TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK

don't you think, er, I think, it seems to me about time I had a raise. I've been here———"

"Bless my soul," he said. "I never thought of it. Why, of course, you're right. Miss Stafford, how old would you say I am?"

Miss Stafford knew perfectly well that he was fifty-five, but she had learned the cunning of all women who have to manage men, whether those men be husbands, employers, or ticket scalpers.

"Why, Mr. Veal, in a good light and in your new suit, I should say about thirty-nine."

"What are you getting now, Miss Stafford?"

"Thirty dollars."

"Tell Mr. Mason to double it."

The feminine mind moves in rapid zigzags, and Miss Stafford's first conscious and coherent thought was of a certain woollen sports suit she had seen in a window on Vincent Street marked $50.00.

"And by the way," said Mr. Veal, "when you see Mr. Mason, tell him I've got a new motto for next week's pay envelopes. Here it is; I found it in the paper this morning. I don't know who wrote it—better have him credit it to Orison Swett Marden."

He handed her a slip of paper, on which he had copied out:

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