“Pretty soon you will, Mr. Albritton. This is an individual matter—just between you and me; because I, and not the bank, am the party what holds these here mortgages on your place.”
“You hold 'em?”
“Sure! I bought both those mortgages off the bank quite some time ago. I own those mortgages—and not anybody else whatsoever.”
“But I thought—”
“You don't need to think. You need only that you should listen at what I am telling you now. It is me—Herman Felsburg, Esquire, of the Oak Hall Clothing Emporium—to which you owe this money, principal and likewise interest. So we will talk together, man to man, if you please, Mr. Albritton. Do I make myself plain? I do.”
The debtor dropped to his side the hand with which he had been rubbing a perplexed forehead. A little gleam, as of hope reawakening, came into his eyes.
“Well, suh,” he said, “you sort of take me by surprise—I didn't have any idea that was the state of the case at all. Then, all along, the bank has just been representing you in the matter?”
“As my agent—yes,” said the little merchant. “Well, to tell you the truth, I'm not sorry to hear it,” said Albritton. “A bank has got its rules, I reckin, and has to live up to 'em. But, dealing with you, suh, as an individual, is another thing altogether. Anyhow, I'm hoping so, Mr. Felsburg.”
“How you make that out?”
Mr. Felsburg's tone was so sharply staccato that Albritton's face fell a little.