replied:--

"It's Brownwell--the fat's in the fire, John. Brownwell's going!"

"Going--going where?" asked the man at the desk, blankly.

"Going to leave town. He's been in and given notice that he wants his
money in gold day after to-morrow."

"Well--well!" exclaimed Barclay, with his eyes staring dumbly at
nothing on the dingy white wall before him. "Well--don't that beat
the Jews? Going to leave town!" He pulled himself together and gripped
his chair as he said, "Not by a damn sight he ain't. He's going to
stay right here and sweat it out. We need that four thousand dollars
in our business. No, you don't, Mr. Man--" he addressed a
hypothetical Brownwell. "You're roped and tied and bucked and gagged,
and you stay here." Then he said, "You go on over to the bank,
General, and I'll take care of Brownwell." Barclay literally shoved
the older man to the door. As he opened it he said, "Send me up a boy
if you see one on the street."

In ten minutes Brownwell was running up the stairs to Barclay's office
in response to his note. He brought a copy of the mortgage with, him,
and laid it before Barclay, who went over it critically. He found a
few errors and marked them, and holding it in his hands turned to the
editor.

"Hendricks says you are going to leave town. Why?" asked Barclay,
bluntly. He had discovered even that early in life that a circuitous
man is generally knocked off his guard by a rush. Brown well blinked
and sputtered a second or two, scrambling to his equilibrium. Before
he could parry Barclay assaulted him again with: "Starving to death,
eh? Lost your grip--going back to Alabama with the banjo on your
knee, are you?"

"No, sir--no, sir, you are entirely wrong, sir--entirely wrong, and
scarcely more polite, either." Brown well paused a minute and added:
"Business is entirely satisfactory, sir--entirely so. It is another
matter." He hesitated a moment and added, with the ghost of a smirk,
"A matter of sentiment--for--

"'The heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,
Is always the first to be touched by the thorns.'"

Brownwell sat there flipping his gloves, exasperatingly; Barclay
screwed up his eyes, put his head on one side, and suddenly a flash
came into his face and he exclaimed, "Come off, you don't mean
it--not Molly!"

The rejected one inclined his head. Barclay was about to laugh, but
instead he said, "Well, you are not a quitter; why don't you go ahead
and get her?" He glanced