had a note to meet, a note for a sum that would not in the past have
seemed large to him, but one at that time assuming dimensions of
importance. He thought when he had given the note that he could meet it
handily; he had twice succeeded in renewing it, and now had come to the
time when he must raise a certain sum or be counted among the wreckage.
He had been hopeful, but found himself on the day of payment without
money and without resources. How many thousands of men who have engaged
in our tigerish dollar struggle have felt the sinking at heart which
came to him then! But he was a man, and he went to work. Talk about
climbing the Alps or charging a battery! The man who has hurried about
all day with reputation to be sustained, even at the sacrifice of pride,
has suffered more, dared more and knows more of life's terrors than any
reckless mountain-climber or any veteran soldier in existence. George
Henry failed at last. He could not meet his bills.

Reason to himself as he might, the man was unable to endure his new
condition placidly. He tried to be philosophical. He would stalk about
his room humming from "The Mahogany Tree":

"Care, like a dun, stands at the gate.
Let the dog wait!"

and seek to get himself into the spirit of the words, but his efforts in
such direction met with less than moderate success. "The dog does wait,"
he would mutter. "He's there all the time. Besides, he isn't a dog: he's
a wolf. What did Thackeray know about wolves!" And so George Henry
brooded, and was, in consequence, not quite as fit for the fray as he
had been in the past.

To make matters worse, there was a woman in the case; not that women