There entered the familiar figure of the village lawyer. His
astrachan coat of yellow dogskin, his celluloid collar, and boots
which reached no higher than the ankle, contrasted with the rude
surroundings of the little room.

"Enderby," he said, "can you pay?"

"Lawyer Perkins," said the farmer, "give me time and I will; so help
me, give me five years more and I'll clear this debt to the last cent."

"John," said the lawyer, touched in spite of his rough (dogskin)
exterior, "I couldn't, if I would. These things are not what they
were. It's a big New York corporation, Pinchem & Company, that makes
these loans now, and they take their money on the day, or they sell you
up. I can't help it. So there's your notice, John, and I am sorry!
No, I'll take no buttermilk, I must keep a clear head to work," and
with that he hurried out into the snow again.

John sat brooding in his chair.

The fire flickered down.

The old clock struck half-past eight, then it half struck a quarter to
nine, then slowly it struck striking.

Presently Enderby rose, picked a lantern from its hook, "Mortgage or
no mortgage," he said, "I must see to the stock."

He passed out of the house, and standing in the yard, looked over the
snow to the cedar swamp beyond with the snow winding through it, far