Reuben Standish, gaunt, gray and stiff as ever, was ushered into the private office. The old man’s face was a monotone of drab, save for a ruddy patch on either cheek bone where consumption flaunted a no-surrender flag. Caleb greeted him with a nod and motioned him to a seat.
“I hope I have not broken in upon very important work,” began Standish glancing at the mountain of letters and papers on the desk.
“All my work’s important,” answered Caleb. “If it wasn’t I’d have an office boy do it while I loafed. Want anything especial?”
“First of all,” evaded Standish, in the courtly, old-world manner that Caleb always found so jarring, “permit me to congratulate you on your great victory at the Capitol yesterday. I read this morning that the Starke bill was defeated entirely through your own personal endeavors. It must be a great thing to wield so powerful an influence over one’s fellow men. I—”
“Say,” interposed Caleb. “Quit standin’ on the distant hilltop makin’ peace signs. Come on down an’ tell me what you want. Make it as short as you can.”
It appeared that Mr. Standish wanted much; though he did not seem to be able to condense his wishes to the degree Caleb suggested. This, however, was of little account, since the Fighter already foreknew the other’s mission. He listened with only perfunctory attention to a recital of the Aaron Burr Bank’s needs, of the stringency of deposits and the danger of a “run;” with still less heed to the tale of an unwonted depression in certain stocks wherein Mr. Standish’s interest was purely marginal. As the story ended, Conover said curtly:
“To sum it up, you’re broke. You want me to make deposits to-day in your bank an’ you want a pers’nal loan besides.”
Standish started to speak. Caleb motioned back the words.
“How much?” he asked. “How much in all? Don’t hem an’ haw, man. You’ve got the amount fixed in your mind, down to the last cent. You know how much you’ll ask for, how much I’m li’ble to give an’ how much you really need. Start off with the biggest sum first. How much?”
Standish tremulously blurted out his statement. When one was dealing with a boor like this Conover, there was surely no need for finesse. The fellow was as blind to the finer shades of business dealings as to the usages of gentle life. Therefore, why hesitate or leave him to guess the amount from adding up a series of delicate hints? A low-browed boor; though a decidedly convenient one to cultivate—at times. The present being most emphatically one of these times, Standish with ruffled dignity laid bare his financial soul.