ay," he remarked brusquely. "What's
the matter with this bill? Ziegler and Company. Two ninety two
sixty--dated November."

Mr. Mix laughed genially, and offered a cigar. "Why, nothing's the
matter with it."

"What's the matter with Ziegler and Company? Aren't they solvent?"

The visitor lighted his cigar, and mellowed. "Well it ain't any of
_my_ funeral, but Ziegler he says if you don't settle by the
fifteenth, he'll give it to his attorney."

For the third time in a week, an attorney had been lugged into the
conversation; more than that, Mr. Mix had received four letters from
two different collection agencies. "In the words of the Good Book," he
said soothingly, "have patience and I will pay thee all."

"What say? Will I come in next week sometime?"

"Now, that," said Mr. Mix, with a rush of approval, "is a first-rate
idea. That's first-rate. Come in next week some time."

"Right-o. Only Ziegler, he's pretty hard-boiled, Mr. Mix.... Say, why
don't you gimme a check now, and save me from gettin' flat-footed? Two
ninety two sixty? Why for _you_ that's chicken-feed."

"Bill hasn't been audited yet," said Mr. Mix, with all the grandeur of
an industrial chieftain. "Come in next week."

The visitor went out, and Mr. Mix scowled at the bill, threatened to
tear it, and finally put it away in a drawer where it had plenty of
companionship. To think that after his lifetime as an important
citizen--generally supposed to be well-to-do if not actually rich--he
couldn't pay a trifling account of less than three hundred dollars
because he didn't have three hundred dollars in the bank. Collection
agencies and the warning of suits--and impertinence from young
ruffians who were hired to dun him! He scowled more heavily, and then
gave his shoulders an upward movement of rancour and disgust.

And yet--the lines receded from his forehead--and yet there was
always John Starkweather, and the friend at Bowie. Mr. Mix rose,
and went out to the corridor, and down it to a door which was
lettered with Mr. Starkweather's name, followed by the inscription:
Real Estate and Insurance, Mortgage Loans. And as he entered, and
remembered that thirty years ago he and John Starkweather had
occupied adjoining stools at the same high desk, and broken their
back over the same drudgery, and at the same wage, he was filled
with an emotion which made his cheeks warm. Side by side, only
thirty years ago, and separated now by the Lord knew what, and
t