One night after dinner, just as he was going out to the veranda for his customary smoke, Murkard called him outside.
"Come over to the store with me for a little while," he said. "I want a serious conversation with you."
Ellison followed him into the hut, and shut the door.
"Look here," said the smaller man, perching himself on the high stool behind his desk, and taking a letter from a pigeon-hole above him, "things have come to a climax. But there, you know that perhaps even better than I do."
"God help us! I think I do, and the anxiety is almost killing me. What we are to do I can't for the life of me see."
"There is a lot of bills coming due next month, and we've got an even smaller return for that last shell than I expected. To cap it all, here's a letter from the bank over the way. It came before dinner, but you looked so precious miserable then that I thought I'd keep it till after you'd had your meal. It's a facer, and no mistake."
"Read it."
Murkard spread the paper out on the desk, and, clearing his throat in an effort to gain time, did as he was commanded.
In plain English, it was to the effect that unless the overdraft could be reduced by one-half within an absurdly short space of time, the bank would be compelled to realise upon its security, which would mean that the station would be closed, and Ellison and his wife thrown upon the world.
Ellison sank his head upon his hands, and groaned like a wounded bull.