As Peter Bolton evidently expected me to comment on this prophecy, I murmured that I was sorry to hear it.
"You needn't be," said he with an attempt to be amiable. "I'll take care of you."
"You are very kind," I said. "But how do you know that Wharton Kendrick is going under?"
"How do I know?" he returned with something of passion under his drawling tone. "Why, I know your man Kendrick like a book. I've known him for forty years. I've watched his business. I've watched him. Oh, he can fool you fellows with his smirking face, and his open-handed way of throwing money about. But I know that it's borrowed money, and the man who makes a show on borrowed money comes to the end of it some day, doesn't he?" Bolton ended querulously, as though he was making complaint against Wharton Kendrick for not having gone into bankruptcy long before.
"Oh, I think you are mistaken," I said. "Mr. Kendrick is known to be very rich."
"Reported to be very rich, you mean," he said in his most sarcastic drawl.
"Oh, there's no doubt about it," I returned warmly. I hoped to provoke him into saying more than he intended.
Peter Bolton took up the challenge.
"Why, young man," he cried, his voice rising into a cracked treble, "he owes money he can't pay. There's five hundred thousand dollars of his notes in that safe there," and he pointed to the solid front of the burglar-defying case. "They fall due pretty soon--some of 'em are due now--and he can't meet 'em."
"Do you mean to say that he has borrowed money of you?" I asked in amazement.