“What does he do with himself?” thought Mr. Waldbridge. “He doesn’t gamble. He’s never seen at the races or baseball games. His name has never been connected with women. What kind of a man is he?”
Martin sat opposite him in the private office, flung his soft hat on the floor, crossed his long legs; his hair was disarranged, his face a yellow pallor; his clothes hung loosely, he was very thin. His “appearance” struck Mr. Waldbridge as very un-American—he himself being an Erie Road commuter with all the proud consciousness of a one hundred per cent Nationalism.
He spoke cautiously of the hard times and unsatisfactory business conditions. They had advanced money on large stocks of merchandise; there was nothing to do but to hold on. If they forced the sale, it would mean enormous losses.
“Yes, I know,” interrupted Martin impatiently. “We couldn’t go on gorging money at that rate; we’d have to vomit it up sometime. No stomach could hold it; that’s what we’re doing now. Some people die suddenly from it; we’ll have a lingering end.”
Waldbridge laughed uneasily, really a very unpleasant young man.
“I hope we will weather it. I’ve been discounting—and—”
Martin interrupted again—discounting meant nothing to him—although he was flying some moral “kites” on his own account.
“Do whatever you like; I’m out of it.”
Waldbridge rose to his feet.
“What do you mean?”