eight in the morning
When Lynde was seven or eight years old he had the misfortune to lose his mother ; his father was already dead . The child 's nearest relative was an uncle , David Lynde , a rich merchant of New York , a bachelor , and a character . Old Lynde -- I call him old Lynde not out of disrespect , but to distinguish him from young Lynde -- was at that period in his sixtieth year , a gentleman of unsullied commercial reputation , and of regular if somewhat peculiar habits . He was at his counting-room precisely at eight in the morning , and was the last to leave in the evening , working as many hours each day as he had done in those first years when he entered as office-boy into the employment of Briggs & Livingstone -- the firm at the time of which I am now writing was Lynde , Livingstone & Co. . Mr. David Lynde lived in a set of chambers up town , and dined at his club , where he usually passed the evenings at chess with some brother antediluvian . A visit to the theatre , when some old English comedy or some new English ballet happened to be on the boards , was the periphery of his dissipation . What is called society saw nothing of him .