Colonel Garland greeted Floyd with delight. He was talking to a tall man in his private office who came up and shook hands.
“You don’t remember me, Mr. Garrison?”
Floyd took in the tired face, the dark-rimmed eyes, the deep lines.
“Yes, I do! Are you still ‘sweating blood’ for money?”
“No, I’m sweating blood to keep it.”
“Have you any left?”
“A few drops, but I’ll be bled white if this goes on.”
He laughed mirthlessly, said “So-long,” and left.
The Colonel looked after him, speaking with a touch of pity and contempt.
“That fellow made a million during the War; it’s been going the other way for some time, and—he’s got a handsome, extravagant wife. Now—if we pull down those old shanties near the river, and build up big warehouses—”