Mr. Newt shook his head affirmatively.

“And, in fine, if it were entirely bankrupt, it could still do a tremendous business for a very considerable time, could it not?”

Mr. Newt assented.

“And the managers, who knew it to be so, would have plenty of time to get off before an explosion, if they wanted to?”

“Abel, what do you mean?” inquired his father.

The young man was still placidly blowing rings of smoke from his mouth, and answered: 

“Nothing terrible.  Don’t be alarmed.  It is only an illustration of the practical value of credit, showing how it covers a retreat, so to speak.  Do you see the moral, father?”

“No; certainly not.  I see no moral at all.”

“Why, suppose that nobody wanted to retreat, but that the Bank was only to be carried over a dangerous place, then credit is a bridge, isn’t it?  If it were out of money, it could live upon its credit until it got the money back again.”

“Clearly,” answered Mr. Newt.

“And if it extended its operations, it would acquire even more credit?”

“Yes.”

“Because people, believing in the solvency of the Bank, would suppose that it extended itself because it had more means?”

“Yes.”

“And would not feel any dust in their eyes?”

“No,” said Mr. Newt, following his son closely.

“Well, then; don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t see,” replied the father; “that is, I don’t see what you mean.”

“Why, father, look here!  I come into your business.  The fact is known.  People look.  There’s no whisper against the house.  We extend ourselves; we live liberally, but we pay the bills.  Every body says, ’Newt & Son are doing a thumping business.’  Perhaps we are—­perhaps we are not.  We are crossing the bridge of credit.  Before people know that we have been living up to our incomes—­quite up, father dear”—­Mr. Newt frowned an entire assent—­“we have plenty of money!”

“How, in Heaven’s name!” cried Boniface Newt, springing up, and in so loud a tone that the clerks looked in from the outer office.

“By my marriage,” returned Abel, quietly.

“With whom?” asked Mr. Newt, earnestly.

“With an heiress.”

“What’s her name?”

“Just what I am trying to find out,” replied Abel, lightly, as he threw his cigar away.  “And now I put it to you, father, as a man of the world and a sensible, sagacious, successful merchant, am I not more likely to meet and marry such a girl, if I live generously in society, than if I shut myself up to be a mere dig?”

Mr. Newt was not sure.  Perhaps it was so.  Upon the whole, it probably was so.