Life insurance companies have proved that the "dangerous age" in most men's financial careers comes in the years between fifty and sixty. In that decade, salaried men are prone to seek a business venture, with some vague idea of providing for their old age. Michael Conroy, weary after his years of police pay and case fees, had gone over into the one business of which he knew nothing.

HERE is no particular reason for

Tchronicling the vagaries of the re

tail shoe trade, on Salina Street in Syracuse. But Michael Conroy found that the former owner evidently had reasons for selling which were much more fundamental than an academic desire to "retire and go west to live".

The store was on the wrong corner; the store had a bad reputation; the large stock was out of date and style; the good will of the business for which Michael had paid $4,500 did not ring up a dollar on the cash register, and Michael's two clerks found time to organize a baseball pool in the neighborhood.

As weeks went on, Conroy's goodhumored Irish face took on perplexed lines, which the clerks noticed.

"He's comin' out of his trance,' said one clerk to the other. "He won't find it so easy to unload as it was to buy it."

They both laughed.

In the latter part of August, Michael Conroy came to his store one morning and told the clerks that he was leaving for a short trip.

"Got to get away for a day or two," said the store owner. "Trade's so slack, now. It'll be a good time to go. Look after things, kind-of. And if you should need me, I'll be in Atlantic

City. Hotel Atlantic. I'll be back Monday."

Conroy did not look like himself, as any of his old friends would have said. There was a certain seedy tone to his clothes; perhaps because they were not pressed. His shoes were not shined, as of yore. His speech was less direct, and even his opinions of the weather, in the club car on the train, were prefaced with a modest, “It seems to me".

The clerk at the hotel gave Conroy one glance. "Nothing cheaper'n $4.50 European."

"With bath?" asked Conroy, modestly.

The clerk shook his head in a superior manner. "Single, with bath's $7.00."

"I'll take the four dollar room."
"I said $4.50."

"Well," Conroy hesitated, "I'll take it."

The bell boy who led him up to the room and threw open the single window that overlooked the hotel kitchen and garage, scornfully pocketed a ten cent tip. In the days of his prosperity, Conroy had invariably given quarters.

ICHAEL CONROY spent an aimless

afternoon along the board walk. He watched the sand sculptors on the beach, the net haul on one of the piers, and gazed in the shop windows. Then he went back to his hotel and waited around the news stand, until the afternoon New York papers arrived.

A florid, flashily dressed man of fifty approached the news stand. "All of 'em," he ordered, in a lordly manner to the girl.

"Hello, there, Mister Schultz. All the New Yorks and Phillys, too?" Conroy looked up from his paper.

"You needn't buy a Sun, friend," he said, politely. "I'm done with this one."

HE news stand girl's lip curled. Schultz grinned at her and then accepted the paper Conroy proffered. "Thanks," he said. "Any of mine you'd like to see?"

"Sometimes I read The Post." They sat down near each other in the lobby. Schultz noted that Conroy turned to the market page.

"Interested in stocks?

"Well," Conroy hesitated, his forefinger marking a quotation in the column, "when business was better, I used to buy and sell a little. I made money at it, too," added Conroy, proudly.

"What business you in?" asked Schultz, negligently.

The girl at the news stand, who could overhear, sniffed. "Him buy stocks," she muttered. "Th' cheap piker."

"Shoe business, in Syracuse.'

Into Schultz's eyes came a gleam of interest. "I've been in the shoe business myself. How's business now, up your way?"

"Terrible. Terrible."

"Say. Let's take dinner."

"Dinner?" Conroy inquired. "Well, I dun'no. I had kind of thought I might go back, t'morrow mornin'. Back to Syracuse."

"I mean dinner tonight."

"It's terrible expensive. I kind of thought I'd slip out to Childs's or somewhere."

"Come on. I'll buy it."

"I'd rather stand my share." Schultz shrugged. "Have it your own way. Childs's it is." They walked out of the lobby together.

At ten o'clock that night, their friendship had progressed so far that Schultz was sitting on the bed in Conroy's tiny room.

"That's th' way it's done, Conroy," said Schultz. "There's nothin' easier or safer. You can't lose. It'll let you out handsome, with somethin' in your pocket. And "Schultz threw back his head and laughed. "There ain't nothin' to prevent you from goin' somewhere else and doin' it all over again. As many times as you like. That's how I made my dough in the shoe business."

"But if they should catch you," objected Conroy.

"Did they ever catch me?"
"No.

ISTEN. Tell you what I'll do. I'll

"LISTEN.

let you have my sucker list. It shows every firm that gives me credit and how much. It's a good list. I've made my two hundred thousand out of it."

"You'll let me. . . ." Conroy hesitated.

"I'll sell it to you. For three thousand dollars. And give you my personal guarantee you'll get your money back, inside of six months. How's that?"

Conroy considered, waiting a full minute before he answered. Then:

"Why should I pay you three thousand for that list, Mr. Schultz?" he inquired, mildly. "I can go to your

receiver in bankruptcy and get the list for nothing." He paused again. "And have the names and amounts sworn to, in the bargain."

Schultz flushed angrily, then caught himself, threw back his head and laughed. "You'll do, Conroy. You'll do. And I thought you was dumb. Listen. Suppose I run up to Syracuse with you and look your store over. If things is promising, well . . . we might go into business together.' Conroy nodded. "I'll pay your fare one way, if you'll come."

Schultz laughed again. "Listen, Conroy. If we make a deal, you won't have to be worrying over railroad fares. Not us."

Conroy's clerks were electrified by the changes which followed Schultz's visit to Syracuse. Conroy's store was transformed. The dead, grimy appearance of the place, the listless attitude of the proprietor, disappeared overnight. Old stock was put out on bargain tables at such fractional values that it melted away. The show windows and the shelves were filled with new and modish shoes.

"Th' boss must of raised some capital in Atlantic City," the clerks agreed. "Well, that money'll go just like his other did. He's been selling old stock for about a half what he paid for it."

Y EARLY October, the shop was

hosiery manufacturer was asked, by a customer, about the credit standing of one Michael Conroy of Salina Street, Syracuse.

"He wants to buy some fixtures from me," explained the customer.

AHE hosiery credit man looked up Conroy's standing and found only that Conroy had always paid cash for merchandise purchased there. “I'll ask the Braddock agency," said the hosiery man.

Twenty-four hours later, as soon as the Conroy store was open for business, a presentable ness, a presentable young man strolled in and asked for Mr. Conroy.

"I'm Michael Conroy. What'd you want?"

"Mr. Conroy, I'm a credit reporter." "I don't want to bother with you. Get out." Conroy's manner was exceedingly gruff.

"Now, Mr. Conroy. You're enlarging your business here and you'll find it convenient to have a rating with us."

"I don't want credit, see?" Michael Conroy could be and was very emphatic. "This is a cash store. I get cash and I pay cash and take my discounts. I haven't had any credit and I don't want any credit. Now, besides, I'm busy. Good day."

Such an attitude bespoke business rectitude. The reporter was interested.

"Now Mr. Conroy. How much cash have you?"

Again Conroy was insulted. He stormed, he raved, he swore at the reporter. But, at length, after another explanation of the meaning of "credit", he told the reporter that he had over $5,000 on deposit in the First National Bank.

And then Conroy played his trump card. He shook hands with the reporter.

"I got a short temper, son," he apologized. "I don't need to do business with you, but you're not a bad fellow. Tell me. What size stocking do

you wear?"

"Eleven and one-half."

pairs of his best silk hose and handed them to the caller. "Take these along and forget that I was so ugly when you come in."

The reporter thanked him, called on the agency's confidential man at the bank, and learned that Conroy had nearly $6,000 on deposit there.

That night, Conroy wired Schultz in Philadelphia. "Fanny arrived today." The credit had been established.

It was about this time that Conroy fired his clerks, employing in their places two young friends of Mr. Schultz, who had come on from Philadelphia. He also began to buy liberally on credit, since many jobbers were offering him handsome terms, wholly on the basis of the credit report.

In January, Schultz made a flying trip to Syracuse. He looked over the bulging shelves and store room.

"Now's

row's th' time to buy for the bust, Conroy."Schultz grinned at the prospect. "You got $30,000 worth of credit. If you can't buy $150,000 worth of goods with that, you're no good. My truck'll be here, in the alley back of the store, at midnight every Tuesday night.'

Some twenty manufacturers, on the strength of Conroy's $30,000 rating, extended ninety day credits to him for spring and summer goods worth more than $125,000. Conroy and his two assistants worked late in the store every night. All day long they unpacked shipping cases, emptied the cardboard boxes, which were placed hollow on the shelves. The shoes and findings and hosiery that had been in them went out on the truck on Tuesday nights, consigned to Schultz's Philadelphia warehouse.

per cent. of the value of these stolen goods. He sold them discreetly to the trade at eighty per cent. of their value, making a net, safe profit for himself of thirty per cent.

Incidentally, as Schultz had boasted to Conroy, he bought some goods legitimately from each firm Conroy was defrauding. This was done so that in case exposure threatened, no one could swear the goods found in the