then rising on his haunches, he munched the pea-nut which he had unearthed, (the gift of some schoolboy, months ago,) as much as to say, “We know how to look out for hard times; but what have you done with your pea-nuts, old fellow, that you look so cross?  Can’t get ’em, eh?  You should put ’em where you’ll know where they are.”  A whisk of his tail and he flew up the tree.  The lesson was lost upon the financier.  At the office-door he met Bullion,—­his face a trifle more ruddy, his eye with a colder glitter, and his queer eyebrow pointing with an odder significance.

“How are you, Sandford?”—­A very short nod.—­“Cool, this morning.”—­ Standing with his dumpy legs apart, he nibbled at the ivory head of his cane.

“Mr. Bullion,” said Sandford, “you must help me.  You must lift that note.  Come, I know you can do it,—­and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Can’t do it; you want a long extension, I s’pose.”

“Say three or four months.”

“Time is money, as I told you before.  In four months, with forty thousand dollars, I could—­do pretty well,” ending the sentence in a lower tone, that indicated a desire to keep his first thought back.

“In a time like this, Mr. Bullion, it is the duty of every man to assist his neighbor to the extent of his ability.  If there is no forbearance, no brotherly aid, how are the complicated settlements of a mad community like this to be made?  There is not money enough to pay what must be paid.”

The eyebrow was stiffly pointed as Bullion answered,—­

“I do forbear.  I must forbear.  Stearine owes me; you indorse; you can’t pay, neither of you.  I sha’n’t get the money.  I must go without.”

It was an injured tone.

“Then why do you let it go to protest?”

“Only a form, Sandford.  Usage of the mercantile world.  Very irregular not to do it.  Sorry, but can’t help it.”

Mr. Sandford’s patience was exhausted.

“It is my turn to-day, Bullion; I have no further resource; I am ruined.  You feel strong and look upon my distress in triumph.  But your turn will come.  Mark my words.  Within a fortnight I shall see you rushing down State Street in despair; your property will be swept away with a flood, and you will be a beggar,—­as you deserve to be.  Damn your stony heart!”

It was the first outburst of profanity from Mr. Sandford,—­too fastidious, usually, to allow himself the use of such expletives.

“Sorry to see you excited, Sandford.  Best to keep temper.  Guess you and Fayerweather will raise the money.  Pity Stearine hadn’t wick enough in him to stand alone.  Rather a poor candle, he is,—­he! he!  Morning!”

The gray eyes twinkled, the eyebrow whisked, and the sturdy legs bore the creditor away.