“That’s the last I shall ever see of the young snob, I hope,” he said to himself. “I’ve got all I can out of him, and now I wash my hands of him. I wish him joy of waiting for me to-night. It’ll be many a long day before he sees me or the balance of the bonds.”
James Congreve settled back in his seat, bought a paper from the paper boy on the train, and began to read in a very comfortable frame of mind.
From time to time he put his hand on the inside pocket in which he had placed the bonds, to make sure of their safety, for no one knew better than he that there were dishonest persons to be met with who were willing to appropriate valuables belonging to others.
It was some time since he had been so well off as he would be when he had converted these bonds into money. Indeed, all the summer long he had been short of funds, or he would not have spent so long a time in a country village, which to him was dull and afforded him a small field for his peculiar talents.
Arriving in New York, Congreve took his way to Wall Street. Here it was that he expected to get rid of the bonds, or, rather, exchange them for greenbacks.
In this street brokers’ and bankers’ offices abound, and all negotiable securities readily find a purchaser. He stepped into an office nearly opposite the opening of New Street, and, approaching the counter, said, as he drew out his bonds:
“What are you paying for government sixes?”
“Let me see the date,” said the clerk. He spread open the bonds, and then answered: “One hundred and fifteen and three-eighths.”
“Very well,” replied Congreve. “I will sell them.”
The clerk took them and stepped to the desk, to make an entry of the purchase.