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