Henry
earn his salt, whether he's got it in him or not; I'm goin' to make
him crawl. That goes as it stands, too; no foolin'.... Look here,
don't you want me to break it to the Judge? Guess I better. I can put
it up to him in _writin'_ twice as good as Henry put it up to me by
talkin', anyhow.... And I'll put an announcement in the _Herald_
that'll take the cuss off. Anna, you hustle up some engraved notices
to get around to all our friends. You know what's in style.... Oh,
you're a couple of champion idiots, and Henry's goin' to sweat for it
when he comes home, but--God bless you, my boy, and you too, my
dear--only _how_ in blazes am I goin' to get it across to Mirabelle?
That's what bites me the worst, Henry; that's what bites me the
worst!"

CHAPTER III

In a small office on the third floor of the City Bank Building Mr.
Theodore Mix, broker and amateur politician, sat moodily intent upon
his morning newspaper. For thirty years (he was fifty-five) Mr. Mix
had been a prominent and a mildly influential citizen, and by great
effort he had managed to keep himself excessively overrated. A few
years ago he had even been mentioned as a candidate for Mayor, and the
ambition was still alive within him, although fulfilment was never so
distant. But despite his appearance, which was dignified, and despite
his manner, which would have done for the diplomatic corps, and
despite his connection with local charities and churches and civic
committees, Mr. Mix was secretly a bit of a bounder; and although the
past decade or two he had made a handsome income, he had contrived to
get rid of it as fast as he conveniently could, and by methods which
wouldn't always have stood analysis.

Lately, for no apparent cause, his best customers had edged away from
him; he was gliding rapidly into debt, and he knew that unless he
clambered out again within six or eight weeks, he should have
considerable difficulty in preserving his reputation, both financial
and ethical. And like all men in the same position, Mr. Mix was
fiercely jealous of his prestige; by long practice he had warped
himself into thinking that it belonged to him; and he was ready to
defend it with every conceivable weapon.

For the moment, however, Mr. Mix was querulous rather than defensive.
He was trying to place the blame for the past two seasons of
misfortune, and when he observed that Pacific Refining was twelve
points up from Saturday's close, he sighed wearily