"Ah, down at the saloon, I expect," said Lablache, drily. "Well, bolt
the front door. Just leave it on the spring latch. I shall be up until
he comes in. What are you two boys going to do?"

"Going to bed, sir."

"All right; good-night."

"Good-night, sir."

The door closed quietly after the clerk, and Lablache heard his two
assistants close up the store and then go upstairs to their rooms. The
money-lender was served well. His employees in the store had been with
him for years. They were worked very hard and their pay was not great,
but their money was sure, and their employment was all the year round.
So many billets upon the prairie depended upon the seasons--opulence one
month and idleness the next. On the ranches it was often worse. There is
but little labor needed in the winter. And those who have the good
fortune to be employed all the year round generally experience a
reduction in wages at the end of the fall round-up, and find themselves
doing the "chores" when winter comes on.

After the departure of the clerk Lablache re-settled himself and went on
smoking placidly. The minutes ticked slowly away. An occasional groan
from the long-suffering basket chair, and the wreathing clouds of smoke
were the only appreciable indication of life in that little room.
By-and-by the great man reached a memorandum tablet from his desk and
dotted down a few hurried figures. Then he breathed a great sigh, and
his face wore a look of satisfaction. There could be no doubt as to the
tenor of his thoughts. Money, money. It was as life to him.

The distant rattle of the spring lock of the store front door being
snapped-to disturbed the quiet of the office. Lablache heard the sound.
Then followed the bolting of the door. The money-lender turned again to
his figures. It was the return of Rodgers, he thought, which had
disturbed him. He soon became buried in further calculations. While
figuring he unconsciously listened for the sound of the clerk's
footsteps on the stairs as he made his way up to his room. The sound did
not come. The room was clouded with tobacco smoke, and still Lablache
belched out fresh clouds to augment the reek of the atmosphere. Suddenly
the glass door opened. The money-lender heard the handle move.

"Eh, what is it, Rodgers?" he said, in a displeased tone. As he spoke
he peered through the smoke.

"What d'you want?" he exclaimed angrily. Then he rubbed his eyes and
craned forward only to fall back again