Shortly before the appointed hour Jack again mounted the three
flights of steps to Peter's rooms. He had had a queer experience--
queer for him. The senior member of one supply firm had looked at
him sharply, and had then said with a contemptuous smile, "Well,
we are looking for ten thousand dollars ourselves, and will pay a
commission to get it." Another had replied that they were short,
or would be glad to oblige him, and as soon as Jack left the
office had called to their bookkeeper to "send MacFarlane his
account, and say we have some heavy payments to meet, and will he
oblige us with a check"--adding to his partner--"Something rotten
in Denmark, or that young fellow wouldn't be looking around for a
wad as big as that." A third merchant heard him out, and with some
feeling in his voice said: "I'm sorry for you, Breen"--Jack's need
of money was excuse enough for the familiarity--"for Mr.
MacFarlane thinks everything of you, he's told me so a dozen
times--and there isn't any finer man living than Henry MacFarlane.
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