"We are getting away from the other matter," Saunders reminded him,
softly. "You came to see Mostyn."

"I came to give him a piece of my mind, young man--that's what I'm
here for. He dodges me. Say, do you know how he got his start--the
money he put in this bank? Well, _I_ can tell you, and I'll bet he
never did. He started the Holly Creek Cotton Mills. It was his idea. I
thought he was honest and straight. He was going round trying to
interest capital. I never had a head for business. The war left me
flat on my back with all the family niggers free, but a chunk of money
came to my children--fifty thousand dollars. It stood in their name,
but I got their legal consent to handle it. Mostyn knew I had it and
was constantly ding-donging at me about his mill idea. Well, I went
in--I risked the whole amount. He was made president although he
didn't hold ten thousand dollars' worth of stock. Then I reckon you
know what happened. He run the thing plumb in the ground, claimed to
be losing money--said labor was too high; claimed that the wrong sort
of machinery had been put in. It went from bad to worse for twelve
months, then it shut down. The operatives moved away, and it was sold
under the hammer. Who bought it in--my God, who do you reckon bid it
in for twenty-five cents on the dollar? Why, the same smooth young
duck that is taking a nap in his fine private quarters back there now.
Then what did he do? Why, all at once he found that the machinery
_was_ all right and labor _could_ be had. Out of his own pocket with
money he had made in some underhand deal or other he added on a wing,
filled it with spindles and looms, built more cottages, and three
years later the stock had hopped up to two for one, and little to be
had at that. He next started this bank, and here I sit in it"--the old
man swept the interior with a slow glance--"without a dollar to my