His desk top held no papers; the writing
materials lay undisturbed. Sometimes the office contained half a dozen
people. Sometimes it was quite empty, and McCarthy sat drumming his blunt
fingers on the window-sill, chewing a cigar, and gazing out over the city
he owned.
There were two other, inner, offices to McCarthy's establishment, in which
sat a private secretary and an office boy. Occasionally McCarthy, with
some especial visitor, retired to one of these for a more confidential
conversation. The secretary seemed always very busy; the office boy was
often in the street. At noon McCarthy took lunch at a small round table in
the cafe below. When he reappeared at the elevator shaft, the elevator
starter again verified his watch. Malachi McCarthy had but the one virtue
of accuracy, and that had to do with matters of time. At five minutes of
six he reached for his hat; at three minutes of six he boarded the
elevator.
"Runs all right to-day, Sam," he remarked genially to the boy whom he had
half throttled the evening before.
He stood for a moment in the entrance of the building, enjoying the sight
of the crowds hurrying to their cars, the elevated, the subway, and the
ferries. The clang and roar of the city pleased his senses, as a vessel
vibrates to its master tone. McCarthy was feeling largely paternal as he
stepped toward the corner, for to a great extent the destinies of these
people were in his hands.
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