Old Ebenezer. Opie Percival Read

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      "I reckon it's safe," said the old man, following him. Caruthers turned his slow eyes upon Lyman. "Has that old fellow got any money?" he asked.

      "Well, he's not a pauper."

      "Suppose we could strike him for a hundred for six months?"

      "No, he's a friend of mine."

      "But," said Caruthers, "if we are going to raise money we'll have to borrow from friends. Our enemies won't let us have it."

      "That's true, but our enemies in protecting themselves should not be permitted to drive us against our friends. That old man would let me have every cent he has. But he has labored more than forty years for his competence, and I will not rob him of a penny."

      "Rob him," Caruthers spoke up with energy. "We'll pay him back."

      "How?"

      "Oh, you know how. With a little money we can get a start. We can rent an office on the ground floor, and then business will come."

      "Yes," said Lyman, "but I don't want that old man to be mixed up in the excitement. Suppose we try the bank."

      "You try it. McElwin does not care for me particularly. Suppose you go over and see him. Offer him a mortgage on our library."

      "I'll do it. Wait until Uncle Buckley has been pumped; I want to bid him good-bye."

      "Go through there, and see him on your way out. The bank will be closed pretty soon."

      "All right. But don't hang a hope on the result."

      Lyman shook hands with Uncle Buckley, and then went across the street to the First National Bank, the financial pride of Old Ebenezer. The low brick building stood as a dollar mark, to be stared at by farmers who had heard of the great piles of gold heaped therein, and James McElwin, as with quick and important step he passed along the street, was gazed upon with an intentness almost religious. Numerous persons claimed kinship with him, and the establishment of third or fourth degree of cousinhood had lifted more than one family out of obscurity. The bank must have had a surplus of twenty thousand dollars, a glaring sum in the eyes of the grinding tradesmen about the public square. An illustrated journal in the East had printed McElwin's picture, together with a brief history of his life. The biographer called him a self-made man, and gave him great credit for having scrambled for dimes in his youth, that he might have dollars in middle life. That he had once gone hungry rather than pay more than the worth of a meal at an old negro's "snack house," was set forth as a "sub-headed" virtue. He had married above him, the daughter of a neighboring "merchant," whose name was stamped on every shoe he sold. The old man died a bankrupt, but the daughter, the wife of the rising capitalist, remained proud and cool with dignity. The union was illustrated with one picture, a girl, to become a belle, a handsome creature, with a mysterious money grace, with a real beauty of hair, mouth and eyes. The envious said that circumstances served to make an imperious simpleton of her.

      It was this man, with these connections, that Lyman crossed the street to see. But to the lawyer it was not so adventurous as grimly humorous. His Yankee shrewdness had pronounced the man a pretentious fraud.

      The banker was in his private office, busy with his papers. Lyman heard him say to the negro who took in his name: "Mr. Lyman! I don't know why he should want to see me. But tell him to come in."

      As Lyman entered the banker looked up and said: "Well, sir."

      Lyman sat down and crossed his legs. The banker looked at his feet, then at his head.

      "Mr. McElwin," said Lyman, "we have not met before, though I, of course, have seen you often, but——"

      "Well, sir, go on."

      "Yes, that's what I am doing. I say that we have not met, but I board at the house of a relative of yours, and I therefore feel that I know you."

      "Board with a relative of mine?" the banker gasped.

      "Yes, with Jasper Staggs, and I want to tell you that he is about as kind hearted an old fellow as I ever met, quaint and accommodating. He is a cousin of yours, I believe."

      "Well—er, yes. But state your business, if you please. I am very busy."

      "I presume so, sir, but I am afraid that my business may not strike you in a very favorable way. I want to borrow one hundred dollars."

      "Upon what collateral, sir?"

      "Mainly upon the collateral of honor."

      The banker looked at him. Lyman continued: "I feel that such a statement in a bank sounds like the echo of an idle laugh, but I mention honor first, because I value it most. I also have, or represent, a law library."

      "Is it worth a hundred dollars?"

      "Well, I can't say that it is, but I should think that the library, reinforced by my honor, is worth that much."

      The banker began to stroke his brown beard. "So you have come here to joke, sir——"

      "Oh, not at all," Lyman broke in, "this is a serious matter."

      "It might be if I were to let you have the money."

      "That isn't so bad," Lyman laughed. "But seriously, I am in much need of a hundred dollars, and if you'll let me have it for six months I will pay it back with interest."

      "I can't do it, sir."

      "You mean that you won't do it."

      "You heard me, sir."

      "I realize the bad form in which I present my case, Mr. McElwin, and I know that if you had made a practice of doing business in this way you would not have been nearly so successful, but I will pledge you my word that if you will let me have the money——"

      "Good day, sir, good day."

      Lyman walked out, not feeling so humorous as when he went in. He looked up and down the dingy, drowsy street. At first he might have been half amused at his failure, tickled with the idea of describing it to Caruthers and the newspaper man, but a sense of humiliation came to him. He knew that in the warfare of business his operation was but a guerrilla's dash, and he was ashamed of himself; and yet he reflected that his great enemy might have been gentler to him. He walked slowly down the street, without an objective point; he passed the group of village jokers, sitting in front of the drug store, with their chairs tipped back against the wall; he passed the planing mill, with its rasping noise, and in his whimsical fancy it sounded like the Town Council snoring. He loitered near a garden where plum trees were in bloom; he looked over at a solemn child digging in the dirt; he caught sight of a pale man with the mark of death upon him, lying near a window, slowly fanning himself. He spoke to the child and the wretched little one looked up and said: "I am digging a grave for my pa." Lyman leaned heavily upon the fence; his heart was touched, and taking out a small piece of money he tossed it to the boy. The grave digger took it up, looked at it a moment in sad astonishment, put it aside and returned to his work.

      The office was deserted when Lyman returned. Caruthers had not hung a hope on the result of the attempted negotiations.

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