“See here, Mr. Hand,” said the lawyer, earnestly. He changed his tone to one of warning persuasion. “I have no doubt that when the time comes Miss Smiley will refuse to take any money on that note for $5,000, preferring to keep the lease of the oyster beds. Mr. Hand,” and Lucius Brown’s voice had a ring in it, “this is a dead serious proposition. The Luscious Oyster Corporation, which honours me by misspelling my first name, is no joke. Everything that I have said about it can be substantiated and will be. Every prediction I have made will be verified. What that will mean to the Blue Port Bivalve Company and to you personally I can’t say, because I don’t know and I don’t care. But this much I do know: if you buy anything from us you will not pay too high a price for it, and you will pay for it only once. What you don’t buy you will go without. We purpose to go ahead with our plans and do not expect to be molested; but if you are looking for a fight you can get it right here.” Richard Hand was facing a man younger than himself, of greater intelligence and better education, a man trained in the law who presumably knew exactly what he could do, and when and how--and how much. There was no knowing what was behind him. It might be one of the banks, Richard Hand reflected. It might be (a shudder) rich New Yorkers; capitalists that you read about. The young man named no names, but this only enhanced the dread stirring in Richard Hand’s mind. The unknown is fearful. If the Luscious Oyster Corporation once got started it very likely spelled the ruin of the Blue Port Bivalve Company. It would break the monopoly he had so carefully and laboriously built up, take away from him the little czardom he had created, and leave him a poor man. But $20,000! He was worth, now, more than that. Not so _much_ more, though. It would take away from him exactly the sum with which he had started operations in Blue Port; it would put him back where he had been then. He would have enough left to keep him out of the poorhouse.... Either that or a life--and--death grapple, with the loss of every cent he had! There was a sort of mist before his eyes as he stood in Lucius Brown’s office. He had never been so terrified in his life. A pain that had arisen in the back of his head troubled him. He seemed to be on fire, all aching; and the next moment he was cold, his head swam, and he felt near to nausea. Gradually every other feeling but the one of fear left him--fear and physical pain. His mind, as distinguished from the head that contained it, was numb. He could not think. He heard himself saying: “I’ll buy. I’ll buy. I’ll buy--everything. Only I must have my note back. Keturah Smiley must give me my note back.” He began to whimper like a little child. “My note, give me back my note! It’s $5,000. Five--thousand--dollars.” Lucius Brown turned away in a sort of pity, which was for the man’s physical distress only.