g smile.

"Well, things aren't so black after all, then?"

"You bet they're not!"

"Glad to hear it. You had me scared last night. My guess is that
something besides stocks and bonds must have cheered you up," he added
suspiciously with a wise nod of his head. "Glad to see it, old fellow.
You've been mum and gloomy as a hippopotamus long enough."

"Have I?" said Bojo, laughing with a little confusion. "Well, I'm not
going to be any longer. You're an old hippopotamus yourself." He got him
around the knees and flung him with an old time tackle on the couch, and
they were scrambling and laughing thus when the telephone rang. It was
Patsie's voice, very faint and pitiful.

"Have you heard? The Clearing House has refused to clear for the
Atlantic Trust. Oh, Bojo, what does it mean?"

CHAPTER XXVIII

ONE LAST CHANCE

Bojo came away from the telephone with a face so grave that Granning
greeted him with an involuntary exclamation:

"Good heavens, Bojo, what's wrong?"

"The Atlantic Trust has gone under. The Clearing House refused to clear.
You know what that means."

"But, I say, you're not affected. You've been out of the market for
months. I say, you didn't have anything up."

"No, no," said Bojo grimly. He went and sat down, his head in his hands.
"I'm not thinking of myself. Some one else. I can't tell you; you must
guess. It will probably all be out soon enough. By George, this is a
cropper."

"I think I understand," said Granning slowly. He sat down in turn,
kicking his toes against the twisted andirons on the hearth. "The
Atlantic Trust--and a billion--who knows, a billion and a half deposits!
What the deuce are we coming to? It will hit us all--bad times!"

Bojo got up heavily and went out. Hardly had he stepped from the leafy
isolation of the Court into the strident conflict of Times Square when
he felt the instant alarm that great disasters instantaneously convey
to a metropolitan crowd. Newspaper trucks were screaming past, halting
to fling out great bunches of the latest extras to fighting, scrambling
groups of street urchins who dispersed, screaming their shrill evil in
high-pitched, contagion-spreading voices. Every one was devouring the
last panic-ridden sheet, some hurrying home, others stopping in their
tracks spellbound to read to the end. He bought an extra hastily from a
strident newsboy who thrust it in his face. The worst was true. The
great Atlantic Trust had been refused clearan