When the two had crossed the street St. George's eye rested upon a group on the sidewalk of the club. The summer weather generally emptied the coffee-room of most of its habitues, sending many of them to the easy-chairs on the sprinkled pavement, one or two tipped back against the trees, or to the balconies and front steps. With his arm in Harry's he passed from one coterie to another in the hope that he might catch some word which would be interesting enough to induce him to fill one of the chairs, even for a brief half-hour, but nothing reached his ears except politics and crops, and he cared for neither. Harding--the pessimist of the club--a man who always had a grievance (and this time with reason, for the money stringency was becoming more acute every day), tried to beguile him into a seat beside him, but he shook his head. He knew all about Harding, and wanted none of his kind of talk--certainly not to-day. “Think of it!” he had heard the growler say to Judge Pancoast as he was about to pass his chair--“the Patapsco won't give me a cent to move my crops, and I hear all the others are in the same fix. You can't get a dollar on a house and lot except at a frightful rate of interest. I tell you everything is going to ruin. How the devil do you get on without money, Temple?” He was spread out in his seat, his legs apart, his fat face turned up, his small fox eyes fixed on St. George. “I don't get on,” remarked St. George with a dry smile. He was still standing. “Why do you ask?” Money rarely troubled St. George; such small sums as he possessed were hived in this same Patapsco Bank, but the cashier had never refused to honor one of his checks as long as he had any money in their vaults, and he didn't think they would begin now. “Queer question for you to ask, Harding” (and a trifle underbred, he thought, one's private affairs not being generally discussed at a club). “Why does it interest you?” “Well, you always say you despise money and yet you seem happy and contented, well dressed, well groomed”--here he wheeled St. George around to look at his back--“yes, got on one of your London coats--Hello, Harry!--glad to see you,” and he held out his hand to the boy. “But really, St. George, aren't you a little worried over the financial outlook? John Gorsuch says we are going to have trouble, and John knows.” “No”--drawled St. George--“I'm not worried.” “And you don't think we're going to have another smash-up?” puffed Harding. “No,” said St. George, edging his way toward the steps of the club as he spoke. He was now entirely through with Harding; his financial forebodings were as distasteful to him as his comments on his clothes and bank account. “But you'll have a julep, won't you? I've just sent John for them. Don't go--sit down. Here, John, take Mr. Temple's order for--”