There was no bank where Richards could borrow money; and he begged Nelson
not to drive his wife and little children from their cherished home.
Nelson choked over the pathos when he read the letter to Tim; but Tim only
grunted a wish that HE had the handling of that feller. And the lawyer
was as little moved as Tim. Miss Brown needed the money, he said.
The banks were not disposed to lend just at present; money, it appeared,
was "tight;" so, in the end, Nelson drove home with the face of Failure
staring at him between his horses' ears.

There was only one way. Should he make Richards suffer
or suffer himself? Did a man have to grind other people
or be ground himself? Meanwhile they had reached the town.
The stir of a festival was in the air. On every side bunting
streamed in the breeze or was draped across brick or wood.
Arches spanned some of the streets, with inscriptions of welcome
on them, and swarms of colored lanterns glittered against
the sunlight almost as gayly as they would show when they should
be lighted at night. Little children ran about waving flags.
Grocery wagons and butchers' wagons trotted by with a flash
of flags dangling from the horses' harness. The streets were
filled with people in their holiday clothes. Everybody smiled.
The shopkeepers answered questions and went out on the sidewalks
to direct strangers. From one window hung a banner inviting
visitors to enter and get a list of hotels and boarding-houses. The
crowd was entirely good-humored and waited outside restaurants,
bandying jokes with true Western philosophy. At times the wagons
made a temporary blockade in the street, but no one grumbled.
Bands of music paraded past them, the escort for visitors
of especial consideration. In a window belonging, the sign
above declared, to the Business Men's Association, stood a huge