He takes the cigar, shame-facedly; and shambles hurriedly off, not waiting for his light. “Poor devil, I suppose he wants to smoke it in a warmer place than this,” says Charlie; and pulls his furs close about him and hurries safely home. CHAPTER XXXII. THE DEACON’S VENGEANCE. Charlie Townley had no rest on New Year’s day. His sleep had been troubled, that night after Tamms’s dinner; and he was kept awake, by the danger that he saw, ignorant of the greater one unseen that he had escaped. The day was a holiday; “the Street” was as deserted, almost, as on Sunday; though the policeman on his rounds and the children, playing at snow-balling in the centre of the empty street, could see, above the half-drawn window-shades, troubled faces of men inside and clerks bending industriously over the great ledgers. Townley was there all day, closeted with Mr. Tamms. He scarcely gave himself time for a bit of bread, at noon, when the chimes of Trinity at the head of the street were ringing again joyously. Thus he kept his holy-day, counting his money in his counting-house, making up the balance of their year’s labors, as is our modern way of keeping holy-days. And as the day wore on, it became evident, even to him, that the money, or rather those slips of paper printed or engraved which might bring in money, were distressingly scanty; while on the other hand, the footing of notes payable grew most portentously. He might, indeed, have thanked his holy-day for one thing--that many of their loans fell due upon the morrow, in consequence of it. Charlie had never quite thoroughly known the business. Mr. Tamms and Mr. Townley both had their private iron boxes in the vault; and he had no means of knowing what might be in these. And Mr. Townley Senior had another iron box marked “Trusts.” On the other hand there was also no means of his knowing how much they had borrowed on their private accounts. Tamms had been very silent through the day; and his calmness gave Charlie some encouragement. Nevertheless, the total of liabilities was appalling: counting their own loans, and loans of the railroad, and of Starbuck Oil, it was over thirteen millions of dollars. True, to meet this, they had two-thirds the entire stock of Allegheny Central--all, in fact, that was not held by private investors or in permanent trusts, for they had not dared to sell a thousand shares since the past summer--and all the bonds and nearly half the stock of Starbuck Oil. But every share of both was pledged for their large debts; to sell even so little as a thousand shares would break the price and bring a call for further “margin.” And they had no further margin to put up. Charlie was appalled. “Couldn’t we get Remington’s brokers to sell some for us?” he hazarded, at last.