"Do I look like a man who had money in two banks?" demanded the poor farmer. "I guess not! It takes all I can rake and scrape to make a living and pay the interest. I put the money for the mortgage in the bank where it would be safe. I didn't know the bank would fail."
"Well, you'll have to get it somewhere," went on the mortgage holder. "Sell some of your things, or—or something."
"I haven't much left to sell—unless I sell myself, and I'm pretty much of a slave the way it is."
"Huh! Any man who can afford to send his sons out West on a pleasure trip ought to have the money to pay his interest," retorted Mr. Jimson.
"My sons did not go on a pleasure trip," answered Mr. Crosby. "They went to hunt for gold."
"And a mighty foolish excursion it was, too. Why didn't you send them to hunt for the fairy bag of gold at the foot of the rainbow? There would have been about as much sense in it."
"They went with an experienced miner, Mr. Jimson. Besides, my boys had earned a vacation."
"Oh, they had, eh? Then why don't they send back some gold nuggets? Why don't they pay the interest?"
"They would if they could. Can't you wait a few weeks? I may be able to get it together again. Or the officers may catch that cashier and get some of the money back."
"I'll not wait one day. As for catching that cashier, I don't believe they'll do it. The money is gone. You know what the agreement is in the mortgage. Either you pay up my interest the day it is due, or take the consequences."