When I got home from this episode, which had started me so unpleasantly, but which had finished so well for me, I found a letter from Larry Friday, in which he said that he found he had been stung badly on the store, and he didn't know whether he would be able to carry it on or not. He hoped, however, before the note matured, to find _some_ of the money, but would see eventually that I got paid back what I would have to pay. I felt positively sick. I was sitting by Betty's bedside when I read the letter, and she noticed my face change. "What is it, boy dear?" I silently passed the letter over to her and waited for her to say, "I told you so." Some women are wonderful--aren't they? She said nothing of the sort, but patted my hand and said: "Too bad, but never mind, dear, I'd much sooner you'd lose a few dollars because you've such a big heart, than have you make a lot of money by being like Blickens." I realized that I would have to set to and save every penny I could to apply against that note when it came due. There was still a month to get together whatever money I could, but it was going to spoil some selling plans I had wanted to try for the store. Never again, would I endorse a note for any man! I have certainly learned my lesson. But why, oh why, couldn't I have profited by other people's experience instead of having to learn business methods by my own? The tuition fee in the school of experience is mighty high. Now, I must tell you the dreadful scare we had a few nights later. At eleven-thirty at night--just as I was impatiently walking the floor of our little sitting-room, while the doctor was upstairs with Betty, I heard the fire engine dash past the end of the street. At the same time I saw a huge tongue of flame shoot above the house, with the accompaniment of a dull roar. The flame was in the direction of my store, and, of course, my first thought was that my store had caught fire again--or that Stigler had fired it. For the last few months Stigler had been acting queerly. He used to stand across the road from my store and nervously bite his finger nails. Then he would unconsciously rub his forehead in a slow methodical way. After a time he would return to his own store, would gaze into the windows and mutter incoherently to himself. I felt that Stigler had for some time been on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Business had been going very badly with him, I knew, because a jobbing house from which I bought had stopped his credit. During the previous three weeks he had been selling goods at ridiculous prices. Not satisfied with normal cuts, he in many cases had sold goods below cost. It had worried me, and I had told Barlow, who had said to let him alone, as a price cutter was a hog and would eventually finish by cutting his own business throat, and he had advised me to keep clear of Stigler, as he (Stigler) attributed all his misfortunes to my competition--and he hadn't forgiven me for winning Betty.