A young man entered the store hastily.  The porter dropped the paper and sprang up; the boys came expectantly forward.  Even the book-keeper stopped to watch the new-comer as he came rapidly toward the office.  Only the head of the house sat unconcernedly at his desk—­his long, pale, bony fingers drumming on the port-folio—­his hard eyes looking out at the messenger.

“This way,” said the book-keeper, suddenly, as he saw that he was going toward Mr. Newt’s room.

“I want Mr. Newt.”

“Which one?”

“The young one, Mr. Abel Newt.”

“He is not here.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

Before the book-keeper was aware the young man had opened the door that communicated with Mr. Newt’s room.  The haggard face under the gray hair turned slowly toward the messenger.  There was something in the sitting figure that made the youth lift his hand and remove his cap, and say, in a low, respectful voice,

“Can you tell me, Sir, where to find Mr. Abel Newt?”

The long, pale, bony fingers still listlessly drummed.  The hard eyes rested upon the questioner for a few moments; then, without any evidence of interest, the old man answered simply, “No,” and looked away as if he had forgotten the stranger’s presence.

“Here’s a note for him from General Belch.”

The gray head beckoned mechanically toward the other room, as if all business were to be transacted there; and the young man bowing again, with a vague sense of awe, went in to the outer office and handed the note to the book-keeper.

It was very short and simple, as Abel found when he read it: 

“MY DEAR SIR,—­I have just heard of your misfortunes.  Don’t be dismayed.  In the shindy of life every body must have his head broken two or three times, and in our country ’tis a man’s duty to fall on his feet.  Such men as Abel Newt are not made to fail.  I want to see you immediately.

“Yours very truly,

“ARCULARIUS BELCH.”

CHAPTER LXII.

THE CRASH, UP TOWN.

The moment Mrs. Dagon heard the dismal news of Boniface Newt’s failure she came running round to see his wife.  The house was as solemnly still as the store and office down town.  Mrs. Dagon looked in at the parlor, which was darkened by closed blinds and shades drawn over the windows, and in which all the furniture was set as for a funeral, except that the chilly chintz covers were not removed.

She found Mrs. Nancy Newt in her chamber with May.

“Well, well!  What does this mean?  It’s all nothing.  Don’t you be alarmed.  What’s failing?  It doesn’t mean any thing; and I really hope, now that he has actually failed and done with it, Boniface will be a little more cheerful and liberal.  Those parlor curtains are positively too bad!  Boniface ought to have plenty of time to himself; and I hope he will give more of those little dinners, and cheer himself up!  How is he?”