He was the money boss for the town of Egypt, and those who did not give
him his per cent nickname called him "Phay-ray-oh"--but behind his back,
of course. To his face his debt slaves bespoke his favor obsequiously.
Seeing that nearly every "Egyptian" with collateral owed him money, Mr.
Britt had no fault to find with his apparent popularity. He did believe,
complacently, that he was popular. A man who was less sure of himself
would not have dared to appear out, all at once, with his beard dyed
purple-black and with a scratch wig to match. Men gasped when they came
into his office in Britt Block, but men held their faces measurably
under control even though their diaphragms fluttered; the need of
renewing a note--paying a bonus for the privilege--helped supplicants
to hold in any bubbling hilarity. Therefore, Mr. Britt continued to be
assured that he was pretty generally all right, so far as the folks of
Egypt were concerned.

Mr. Britt dyed after Hittie died. That was when he was past sixty-five.

It was only the familiar, oft-repeated instance of temperament being
jounced out of a lifelong rut by a break in wedlock relations.

Hittie was his yoke-mate, pulling hard at his side with wages of food
and drink. The two of them kept plodding steadily in the dry and rocky
road all the years, never lifting their eyes to look over into pastures
forbidden. Perhaps if Hittie had been left with the money, after the
yoke had been sundered, she would have kicked up her heels in a few
final capers of consolation, in order to prove to herself, by brief
experience, how much better consistent sainthood was as a settled state.

In view of such a possibility--and widows are not altogether different
from widowers--it was hardly fair in the folks of Egypt to twist every