The visitor lighted his cigar, and mellowed. "Well it ain't any of _my_ funeral, but Ziegler he says if you don't settle by the fifteenth, he'll give it to his attorney." For the third time in a week, an attorney had been lugged into the conversation; more than that, Mr. Mix had received four letters from two different collection agencies. "In the words of the Good Book," he said soothingly, "have patience and I will pay thee all." "What say? Will I come in next week sometime?" "Now, that," said Mr. Mix, with a rush of approval, "is a first-rate idea. That's first-rate. Come in next week some time." "Right-o. Only Ziegler, he's pretty hard-boiled, Mr. Mix.... Say, why don't you gimme a check now, and save me from gettin' flat-footed? Two ninety two sixty? Why for _you_ that's chicken-feed." "Bill hasn't been audited yet," said Mr. Mix, with all the grandeur of an industrial chieftain. "Come in next week." The visitor went out, and Mr. Mix scowled at the bill, threatened to tear it, and finally put it away in a drawer where it had plenty of companionship. To think that after his lifetime as an important citizen--generally supposed to be well-to-do if not actually rich--he couldn't pay a trifling account of less than three hundred dollars because he didn't have three hundred dollars in the bank. Collection agencies and the warning of suits--and impertinence from young ruffians who were hired to dun him! He scowled more heavily, and then gave his shoulders an upward movement of rancour and disgust. And yet--the lines receded from his forehead--and yet there was always John Starkweather, and the friend at Bowie. Mr. Mix rose, and went out to the corridor, and down it to a door which was lettered with Mr. Starkweather's name, followed by the inscription: Real Estate and Insurance, Mortgage Loans. And as he entered, and remembered that thirty years ago he and John Starkweather had occupied adjoining stools at the same high desk, and broken their back over the same drudgery, and at the same wage, he was filled with an emotion which made his cheeks warm. Side by side, only thirty years ago, and separated now by the Lord knew what, and the Lord knew why. Mr. Mix knew that he was brainier than John Starkweather; he admitted it. Brainier, smoother, quicker of wit, and more polished. But Starkweather's office handled the bulk of local realty transactions; it wrote more insurance than all of its competitors in a mass; it loaned almost as much money, on mortgage, as the Trust and Savings. And Mr. Mix, Broker, was on the verge of bankruptcy. Luck! No question about it. At the swinging gate there was a girl-clerk who smiled up at him, flirtatiously. "Want to see the boss? He's busy for a coupla minutes." "All right," said Mr. Mix in an undertone. "I'll stay here and talk to you." "The nerve of some folks! Think I'm paid to listen to your line of hot air? Not 'till they double my salary. You go sit down and have a thought. Exercise's what you need."