al world was
clamoring for money and perishing through lack of it, the first of each
month many thousands of dollars poured into his coffers from the
water-rates, and each day ten thousand dollars, in dime and nickels,
came in from his street railways and ferries.

Cash was what was wanted, and had he had the use of all this steady
river of cash, all would have been well with him. As it was, he had to
fight continually for a portion of it. Improvement work ceased, and
only absolutely essential repairs were made. His fiercest fight was
with the operating expenses, and this was a fight that never ended.
There was never any let-up in his turning the thumb-screws of extended
credit and economy. From the big wholesale suppliers down through the
salary list to office stationery and postage stamps, he kept the
thumb-screws turning. When his superintendents and heads of
departments performed prodigies of cutting down, he patted them on the
back and demanded more. When they threw down their hands in despair,
he showed them how more could be accomplished.

"You are getting eight thousand dollars a year," he told Matthewson.
"It's better pay than you ever got in your life before. Your fortune
is in the same sack with mine. You've got to stand for some of the
strain and risk. You've got personal credit in this town. Use it.
Stand off butcher and baker and all the rest. Savvee? You're drawing
down something like six hundred and sixty dollars a month. I want that
cash. From now on, stand everybody off and draw down a hundred. I'll
pay you interest on the rest till this blows over."

Two weeks later, with the pay-roll before them, it was:--

"Matthewson, who's this bookkeeper, Rogers? Your nephew? I thought
so. He's pulling down eighty-five a month. After--this let him draw
thirty-five. The forty can ride with me at interest."

"Impossible!" Matthewson cried. "He can't make ends meet on his salary
as it is, and he has a wife and two kids--"

Daylight was upon him with a mighty oath.

"Can't! Impossible! What in hell do you think I'm running? A home for
feeble-minded? Feeding and dressing and wiping the little noses of a
lot of idiots that can't take care of themselves? Not on your life.
I'm hustling, and now's the time that everybody that works for me has
got to hustle. I want no fair-weather birds holding down my office
chairs or anything else. This is nasty weather, damn nasty weather,
and they've g