"Oh, I know their profit is big," George sighed, "but men of my stamp have to go to them when they need a stake to pull through on."
"I have figured on their method," Saunders said, "and I am quite sure that they get as their part fully half of the earnings of their customers. It may interest you to know, George, that our bank lends that firm money at only seven or eight per cent., which they turn over to you at no less than fifty."
"I see," George sighed; "the poor man has the bag to hold. Money makes money."
"I have a plan in my head, George"—Saunders was somewhat embarrassed, and looked away from the dejected face before him—"which, it seems to me, might help both you and me in a certain way."
"What is that?" George stared, wonderingly, his fine lips quivering.
"To begin with, George, I think that your bad crop this season is due largely to the poor land you rented. I noticed it early in the year and was afraid you'd not accomplish much."
"It was all I could get," George said. "I tried all around, but every other small farm either was to be worked by the owner or was rented already. It was root hog or die with me, Mr. Saunders."
"You have seen the Warner farm, haven't you?" the banker inquired.
"You bet I have!" George responded. "It is the prettiest small place in this valley."
"Well, I bought it the other day for two thousand dollars," Saunders said. "Warner owed me some money, and I had to take the farm to secure myself. Things like that often come up in a bank, you know."