The Ledger and the Boy
The telegram arrived at seven minutes past four on an afternoon that smelled of coal smoke and horse dung and the faint electric tang of the new arc lights being strung along Broadway. Silas Thornton read it standing at the window of his office on the fourth floor of the Thornton Steel Building on lower Wall Street, his back to the roll-top desk that held forty-three years of ledgers, and when...
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