“Does he think maybe he can pay his just debts with talk?” inquired Mr. Felsburg. “Well, if he does I'll mighty soon undeceive him,” said Kivil. “And yet I can't help but feel sorry for the poor devil--he's had an awful run of luck, by all accounts. But here's the thing I mainly wanted to speak to you about: You see, he still thinks the bank holds these mortgages. He doesn't know you bought 'em from the bank; and what I wanted to ask you was this: Do you want me to tell him the truth when he comes in, or would you rather I waited and let him find it out for himself when the foreclosure goes through and the sheriff takes possession?” “Don't do neither one,” ordered Mr. Felsburg. “You should call him up right away and tell him to come in to see about it to-morrow at ten o'clock. And then, Herby, when he does come in, you should tell him he should step over to the Oak Hall and see me in my office. That's all what you should tell him. I got reasons of my own why I should prefer to break the news to him myself. Understand, Herby?” “I understand, Mr. Felsburg,” said Mr. Kivil. “The minute he steps in here--before he's had time to open up the subject--I'm to send him over to see you. Is that right?” “That's exactly right, Herby.” And, with pleased puckers at the corners of his eyes, Mr. Felsburg turned away and went stumping out. Physically Mr. Felsburg didn't in the least suggest a cat, and yet, after he was gone, Cashier Kivil found himself likening Mr. Felsburg to a cat with long claws--a cat that would play a long time with a captive mouse before killing it. He turned to his assistant, Emanuel Moon. “What's bred in the bone is bound to show sooner or later,” said Herb Kivil sagely. “I never thought of it before--but I guess there must be a mighty mean streak in Mr. Felsburg somewheres. I know this much: I'd hate mightily to owe him any money. Did you see that look on his face? He looked like a regular little old Shylock. I'll bet you he takes his pound of flesh every pop--with an extra half pound or so thrown in for good measure.” Long before ten o'clock the following morning Mr. Felsburg sat waiting in his little cubicle of a private office on the mezzanine floor at the back of the Oak Hall. He kept taking out his watch and looking at it. About ten minutes past the hour one of the clerks climbed the stairs to tell him that Mr. Thomas Albritton, from out in the Massac Creek neighbourhood, was below, asking to see him. “All right,” said Mr. Felsburg; “you should send him up here to me right away. Tell him I said, please, he should step this way.”