"Poor Merle!" reflected the bishop. "And what became of the kitten?"
"Why, he's got him yet. A big black cat now. Martin Luther's his name, and wherever Merle goes there's Martin Luther taggin' after him like Mary's little lamb. Understand, Bish, I like Merle; I like to have him 'round. As far as that goes I like the rest of 'em, but——" Here his face clouded.
"My dear Baxter," said the bishop sympathetically, "I understand these little family annoyances, but after all you're a rich man and——"
"Yes," cut in Hiram, "I'm a rich man, and if I don't look out I'll wake up some fine morning and find myself"—here the fighting spirit flashed in Hiram's honest blue eyes, and with a swing of his powerful shoulders—"no, I won't, either," he added. "I'll beat those Wall Street devils yet; I'll beat 'em at their own game."
Then Baxter, in strict confidence, explained to the bishop the nature of the difficulties in which he innocently found himself, difficulties that put in jeopardy every dollar of his fortune and with it the happiness and welfare of his family.
The prelate followed this narrative with sympathetic interest and concern, and then listened with growing astonishment while Baxter outlined briefly his programme, which, after all, was based on a very simple idea, yet was so unusual that the average person would have at once rejected it as impossible.
Thus the bishop at once objected: "But, my good friend, this is out of the question, quite out of the question."
"Why is it?" persisted Hiram.
"For one thing your wife will never consent."
"Won't she? You wait and see."