XII
A crier with a bell advanced through Dock Street; as the tongue monotonously galing-galanged against the sides of the bell, the man chanted with equal monotony:
"A hogshead of rum! To whom it may concern: a hogshead of fine Jamaica rum will be sold at vendue at the warehouse of William Stone, in Mulberry Street, at two o'clock to-day."
"Another damned cutthroat must be asking for his pound of flesh!" grumbled a gentleman, whose bulbous nose was pinched blue with the snap of the cold. "Stone's interest is no doubt due, and he's forced to send out a crier and sell a hogshead of liquor to keep the shark from turning over on his back."
Mr. Sparhawk, who bore the blue-nosed gentleman company, smiled dryly.
"Mr. Stone, from what I hear of his affairs, need not bother himself. He's so safely in the hands of Bulfinch and his handsome sons that he has no more chance of escape, Mr. Stroude, than the north star has of falling out of the sky."
Mr. Stroude swore eloquently.
"Bulfinch is a villain," announced he. "And I wish his sons were at the devil!"
"There are a great many who are equally pious with regard to them," said Mr. Sparhawk, "but at the same time the stairs leading to their den are wearing thinner and thinner under the tread of these same gentlemen's feet."
"I have merchandise to the value of eight thousand dollars," protested Mr. Stroude gloomily, "and with it I have a good name in business. But can I borrow two thousand dollars in a reputable way? I can't! Will any institution in the city take my note on any terms that correspond with my position as a merchant? They will not! And why?" demanded Mr. Stroude of the world, as he swept it with his eye. "Why not? It is because the law permits them but a fair interest, but if they can force me to go to their secret co-worker, Bulfinch, they can make me pay as many times that as my necessity compels."