Aaron Doolittle was a local character. In a way he was a sort of Shylock, but he would not have felt complimented had any one called him that, though his knowledge of Shakespeare was limited. Mr. Doolittle had money, and he loaned it out on the best of security at high rates of interest.
Tom found him in his office over the local bank, in which, it was rumored, Mr. Doolittle held a large interest.
“Well, what do you want?” fairly snarled the financier of Tom, as the latter entered. “I haven’t any money to lend, if that’s what you’ve come for.”
“Money to lend?” repeated Tom, somewhat surprised.
“Yes. That’s what I said! If you came here thinking to get enough to keep on with that silly soldier life you’ve been leading you can march right out again, the way you came in. You’ll get no money from me!”
“Well, I’m not so sure of that,” Tom said, more coolly than he felt.
“Hey? What do you mean?” Mr. Doolittle seemed alarmed.
“I’ll tell you that later,” Tom said significantly, as he felt in his pocket to see if he had the draft of the deed safe. “But just now I’ll say I didn’t come to borrow any money.” Tom emphasized the word “borrow.”
“Another thing,” he went on. “I don’t need money to continue at West Point. I am being paid for staying there.”
“Paid! Huh! What’s this country coming to, anyhow, when it squanders money on such foolishness?” snorted the crabbed old man.