Presently the notary came with the inevitable demand. He was a cheerful fellow in his sorry business, blithe as an old stager of an undertaker at a first-class funeral. He chatted about the crisis, and, as a matter of course, brought all the latest news from State Street. Monroe listened to one piece of news, but had ears for no more. "Sandford and Fayerweather had failed, and the old Vortex, which they had managed, was dead broke, cleaned out."
Mr. Lindsay was not the only heart-stricken man who left the counting-room that day.
CHAPTER XVI.
Monroe was walking sorrowfully homeward, when he met Easelmann near the corner of Summer Street. He was in no humor for conversation, but he could not civilly avoid the painter, who evidently was waiting to speak to him.
"Glad to see one man that isn't a capitalist. You and I, Monroe, are independent of banks and brokers."
Monroe faintly smiled.
"This is a deadly time here in Boston,—a horrible stagnation. Every man avoids his neighbor as though he had the plague; and we have no Boccaccio to tell us stories while the dead-carts go by."
"The dead-cart went through our street to-day."
"You don't tell me! Who is the lucky corpse that is out of his misery?"
"Mr. Lindsay. Our house is shut up, and I am a vagrant."