"God bless us! What's the matter with you, good Mr. Somers?" he ejaculated.
But the rich man did not heed him.
"I wouldn't give a snap for your Reading Railroad—bad stock—bad stock—it must burst. It will burst, I say. Pay, pay, pay, or go! That's the only way to do business. D'ye suppose I'm an ass? The note can't lie over. If you don't meet it, it shall be protested."
As he uttered these incoherent words, his expanding eyes still fixed, he inserted his tremulous hand in his waist-coat pocket, and took from thence a golden eagle, which he brought near his eyes, gazing at it long and eagerly.
"He's delirious," ejaculated Tarleton, "why don't you go for a doctor?"
"Oh, what shall I do?" cried Gulian, rushing to the door, "why doesn't the doctor come?—"
But at the door he was confronted by the buxom housekeeper, who whispered, "Our doctor is out of town, but one of the servants has found another one: he's writing down-stairs."
"Quick! Quick! Bring him at once;" and Gulian, in his flight, pushed the housekeeper out of the room.
Mr. Somers still remained in a sitting posture, his eye fixed upon the golden eagle.
"Tell Jenks to foreclose," he muttered, "I've nothing to do with the man's wife and children. It isn't in the way of business. The mortgage isn't paid, and we must sell—sell—sell,—sell," he repeated until his voice died away in a murmur.