"Young man," he said in a counterfeit of his old patronising tone, "come in here. You may as well hear about it. You 're a friend of ours. Come in and shut the door."
Nellie was not in view.
Denry went in and shut the door.
"Sit down," said Cotterill.
And it was just as if he had said: "Now, you 're a fairly bright sort of youth, and you have n't done so badly in life; and as a reward I mean to admit you to the privilege of hearing about our ill-luck, which for some mysterious reason reflects more credit on me than your good luck reflects on you, young man."
And he stroked his straggling grey beard.
"I 'm going to file my petition to-morrow," said he, and gave a short laugh.
"Really!" said Denry, who could think of nothing else to say. His name was not Capron-Smith.
"Yes; they won't leave me any alternative," said Mr. Cotterill.
Then he gave a brief history of his late commercial career to the young man. And he seemed to figure it as a sort of tug-of-war between his creditors and his debtors, he himself being the rope. He seemed to imply that he had always done his sincere best to attain the greatest good of the greatest number, but that those wrong-headed creditors had consistently thwarted him. However, he bore them no grudge. It was the fortune of the tug-of-war. He pretended, with shabby magnificence of spirit, that a bankruptcy at the age of near sixty, in a community where one has cut a figure, is a mere passing episode.