and told himself
that it was all a matter of luck. He had had an appointment, last
Saturday at nine o'clock, with his friend John Starkweather, and he
had meant to borrow something from him, if possible, and to risk a
few hundred shares of Pacific Refining on margin; but he had
overslept, and Mr. Starkweather had left his office at nine fifteen
and hadn't come back again that day, so that the profit which might so
easily have come to rest in Mr. Mix's pockets was now in other
quarters.

Luck! The most intangible of assets and the most unescapable of
liabilities. On Saturday, Mr. Mix had arrived too late because he had
overslept because his alarm-clock had been tinkered by a watchmaker
who had inherited a taste for alcohol from a parent who had been
ruined by the Chicago fire--and almost before he knew it, Mr. Mix had
trailed the blame to Adam and Eve, and was feeling personally
resentful. It was plain to him that his failure wasn't in any sense
his own fault.

As he resumed his paper, however, his querulousness yielded to a broad
sunny optimism, and he turned to the sporting page and hunted out the
news from the Bowie track. He had a friend at Bowie, and the friend
owned a horse which he swore was the darkest three-year-old in
captivity; he had wired Mr. Mix to hypothecate his shirt, and bet the
proceeds on the fourth race, this coming Saturday. The odds would be
at least 10 to 1, he said, and he could place all the money that Mr.
Mix might send him.

Mr. Mix leaned back and built a stable in the air. Suppose he could
borrow a couple of thousand. Twenty thousand clear profit. Then a
quick dash into the cotton-market (the price was certainly going to
break wide open in another month) and the twenty would unfold, and
expand, and become fifty. And if a shrewd, cold-blooded man went down
to Wall Street with fifty thousand dollars, and played close to his
chest, he ought to double his capital in four months. To be sure, Mr.
Mix had been losing steadily for a dozen years, but he was confident
that he had it in him to be a great and successful plunger. He felt
it. Heretofore, he had been handicapped by operating on a shoestring;
but with fifty thousand dollars to put his back against--

His stenographer announced a caller, and on the instant, Mr. Mix, put
on his other personality, and prepared to silver his tongue. The
caller, however, came straight to Mr. Mix's desk, and flipped out one
sheet from a large portfolio. "S