“That isn’t the only scare I owe to you,” muttered Mr. Blodgett. “I didn’t take your address because I told you to come again. Why didn’t you?” “I am here.” “Yes. But for three weeks I’ve been worrying over what you were doing with yourself, and not knowing that you hadn’t cut your throat.” “I am sorry to have troubled you. I stayed away to save troubling you.” “You’re as considerate as the Fiji islander was of the missionary, when he asked him if he had rather be cooked _à la maître d’hôtel_ or _en papillote_. What have you been doing?” “Very little to any purpose. I have written to my publisher, offering to sell my rights in my text-books; to a friend, asking him to learn for what price he can sell my library; and to my bankers, directing them to send me the bonds and a draft for my balance. I received the securities and a bill of exchange yesterday, and am so ignorant of business methods that I came to you this morning to learn how to turn them into cash.” “I’ll do better than that,” volunteered Mr. Blodgett, touching a button. “Give them to me, and I’ll have it done.” Then, after he had turned the matter over to a clerk, he asked, “What does your publisher offer?” “Thirty-five hundred.” “And what are your royalties?” “Last year they were over six hundred dollars.” “Humph! That’s equivalent to investing money at eighteen per cent. You ought to get more than that.” “A little more or less is nothing compared with paying so much on my debt.” “What will your library bring?” “Perhaps four thousand, if I can find some one who wants so technical a collection.” “And you can get along without it?” “I must,” I declared, though wincing a little. “Rather goes against the grain, eh?” he rejoined kindly. I tried to laugh, and said, “My books have been such good comrades that I haven’t quite accustomed myself yet to thinking of them as merchandise. I feel a little as the bankrupt planter must have felt when he saw his slave children offered for sale.” “And what do you plan to do with yourself?” “I haven’t been able to make up my mind.” We were interrupted at this point by some business matter, and I took my leave. The next morning Mr. Blodgett called at my boarding-place on his way down town. “I haven’t come to talk business,” he announced. “I told my wife and daughter, last night, about the fellow from the backwoods of Asia, and made them so curious that Mrs. Blodgett has given me permission to furnish him board and lodgings for a week. I’ll promise you a better room than this,” he added, glancing at the box I had moved into as soon as I realized how much worse than a pauper I was. I could hardly express my gratitude as I tried to thank him, but he pretended not to perceive my emotion, and said briskly: “That’s settled, then. Send your stuff round any time to-day, and be on deck for a seven-o’clock dinner.”