"
Chapter VIII
Paul Clifford sat at his ledger with a perplexed and anxious look. It
was near two o'clock and his note was in bank. If he could not raise
five hundred dollars by three o'clock, that note would be protested.
Money was exceedingly hard to raise, and he was about despairing. Once
he thought of applying to John Anderson, but he said to himself, "No, I
will not touch his money, for it is the price of blood," for he did not
wish to owe gratitude where he did not feel respect. It was now five
minutes past two o'clock and in less than an hour his note would be
protested unless relief came from some unexpected quarter.
"Is Mr. Clifford in?" said a full manly voice. Paul, suddenly roused
from his painful reflections, answered, "Yes, come in. Good morning sir,
what can I do for you this morning?"
"I have come to see you on business."
"I am at your service," said Paul.
"Do you remember," said the young man, "of having aided an unfortunate
friend more than a dozen years since by lending him five hundred
dollars?"
"Yes, I remember he was an old friend of mine, a school-mate of my
father's, Charles Smith.
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