"You are--er--a--a----"
"No use to quarrel about it, Mr. Vernon. You must pay, or I will serve the notice."
A wordy war followed, but Mr. Brown was obdurate, and to avoid being set out on the street Frederic Vernon paid him fifty dollars on account, and promised to settle the balance inside of ten days. Then the young man walked into his parlor, threw himself into an easy chair, lit a Havana cigar, and gave himself up to his reflections.
But not for long, for five minutes later there was a knock on the door and opening it, he found himself confronted by Mr. Simon Moses, his tailor.
"Ver sorry, inteet, to disturb you, Mr. Vernon," said the tailor, who was a Hebrew, "but I come to see if you vould pe so kind as to bay up dot pill you vos owin' me for der last seex months."
"No; I haven't got any money now," growled Vernon. "Come next week."
"Dot is oxactly vot you say las' veek, und de veek pefore, Mr. Vernon. Dot pill is long oferdue, and I vos need mine monish."
"So do I need my money, but I can't get it, Mr. Moses. I've got six thousand dollars owing me for a month, and can't get a cent of it."
For the moment the Hebrew was astonished, then a crafty look came into his eyes.
"Maype you vill sign ofer von of dem claims to me, hey?" he suggested. "Chust enough to cofer mine pill, see?"