Two days later, with the courage of hunger, Libro visited the locality of this American Mont de Piété. But he was again afraid to enter. He seemed to see all his friends near him, watching him. He thought they smiled when they acknowledged his trembling salute. Broadway seemed to contain myriads of his acquaintances. He then thought with dread of the interior of the place, with its poor, degraded, perhaps half-clothed men and women, forced to pledge their last precious possession. He walked away, but returned, laughing at his cowardice. This was also to be a new experience. He resolved to walk quickly up to the door and enter before anyone would notice him.
He received a shock when he passed the portals. If he observed acquaintances on the outside, here on the inside, he met friends! All Wall Street seemed to be gathered. It was more like a meeting of the Down Town Club. "Hello, Jack! Why, if that's not Libro!" and "The Baby Member!" greeted him from all sides. Before the well-worn counter was the flower of New York's financial set, pawning their diamonds and their good-repute. The wire houses and the bucket shops and the legitimate offices were all closed, and, by a marvelous change, as in the twinkling of an eye, the principals, and not their customers, were putting up "more margin!"
John Libro entered properly into the spirit of the occasion. He laughed with the others when one received $50 on a diamond ring that cost two hundred. He roared in harmony with the crowd when one well known Broadway habitué objected to the twelve dollars proffered on a gold watch. It was all too funny for anything! It was now his turn. He felt sick as he took from his tie an emerald pin, the gift of his mother.
"How much do you want on this?" asked the proprietor. It was a cold voice which went through him like steel. He took an instant dislike to this man who was the proprietor himself, Geoffrey Steinman, a king among his brethren of this old and honorable profession.
"Seventy-five dollars," said Libro.
"This is no time for jokes," Steinman retorted. "I shall advance you fifteen dollars, and not a cent more."
"But it cost a hundred at Tiffany's!"
"Fifteen dollars—my time is valuable."
It was the same old story. John Libro received the money and departed. He was bitter at the world and particularly at the cold, keen gentleman who presided over the destinies of the shop with the glittering windows. He grew bitter when his watch (his father's gift), his fob, his gold card-case, his medals and finally his overcoat went into the tiger's maw. And every time he remonstrated with him, cursed him, or implored him, Steinman remained the same—heartless, brusque, cutting, satirical and, what was worse than all, polite. "Damn his politeness," gasped Libro—"I can do nothing at all with him when he is polite!"
This hate ripened and broke out anew when each article was pawned. "If I could only get even"—he exclaimed hopelessly. He had not a chance in the world, he thought. For a thousand times he said goodby to a dear memento of his parents or a remembrance of his youth. At last he had pledged everything.