Mr. Mix smiled blandly. “What’s security between friends? I’ll give you a demand note.”
At length, Mr. Starkweather stopped drumming. “Mix, I don’t quite get you.... You’ve had a good business; you must have made considerable money. You oughtn’t be borrowin’ from me; that’s what your bank’s for. You oughtn’t be borrowin’ money any way. You been too big a man to get in a hole like this. What’s wrong––business rotten?”
“Too good,” said Mr. Mix, frankly. “It’s taking all my capital to carry my customers. And you know how tight money is.”
“Oh, yes. Well––I guess your credit’s good 37 for five, all right. When do you have to have it? Now?”
“Any time that suits you, suits me.”
Mr. Starkweather shook his head. “No, it don’t, either. When a man wants money, he wants it. Wants it some particular day. When is it?”
“Why, if you could let me have it today, John, I’d appreciate it.”
“Make out your note,” said Mr. Starkweather, heavily, “Interest at six percent, semi-annually. I’ll have the cashier write you out a check.”
Ten minutes later Mr. Mix, patting his breast pocket affectionately, bestowed a paternal smile upon the girl at the wicket; and Mr. Starkweather, alone in his office, drew a prodigious breath and slumped down in his chair, and fell to gazing out over the roof-tops.
It was a fortnight, now, since Henry’s last letter. He wished that Henry would write oftener. He told himself that one of Henry’s impulsive, buoyant letters would furnish the only efficacious antidote to Mirabelle. And he 38 needed an antidote, and a powerful one, for during the past two weeks Mirabelle had been surpassing herself. That is, if one can surpass a superlative.