He went directly to his office, nor did he leave it during the morning. The caucus was in progress. He had been vitally interested in it. But this morning nothing interested him; he was apathetic. Part of this was due to physical condition, more to mental stress.
Even when the Diversity Bank presented for payment his note for thirty thousand dollars he was not aroused. It would have been his nature to do something, anything, in an effort to avert calamity; but it was not Sudden Jim who sat before his desk. It was just Jim, shorn of the attribute which had earned him his name.
He had expected the note to be presented. Well, he could not pay. There was no way to pay. Somehow he had failed, and his father would think the family blood had grown thin in his veins. Even that mattered little. Moran had beaten him. The burning of Crab Creek Trestle was a decisive blow. Before it could be replaced the logs in his yard would be exhausted, the mills must shut down for lack of raw material. There was no use to try to sweep back the inevitable; it was attempting to stay the inflowing tide with a broom.
He did not leave the office at dinner-time, but asked young Newell to fetch him a lunch from the hotel. Three days remained, the days of grace allowed by law after the presentation of his note. He saw no use for them.
It had not yet struck one o’clock when Zaanan Frame came in.
“Feelin’ perty bad, Jim, eh? Had a perty tough time?”
Jim nodded.
“Git on your hat. I’ve fetched Tiffany, and we’ll drive down to the Diversity Company’s annual meetin’. Guess a drive after the best hoss in the county’ll perk you up consid’able.”
“What’s the use, Judge? They’ve got me. I’m done.”
“Huh! Sudden Jim, eh? Don’t act very sudden jest now. What’s ailin’ your ambition?”