The man who had loaned him the money to buy Ellen’s watch stood there.  His name was William Evarts, and he worked in the stitching-room of McGuire’s factory, in which Andrew was employed.  He was reported well-to-do, and to have amassed considerable money from judicious expenditures of his savings, and to be strictly honest, but hard in his dealings.  He was regarded with a covert disfavor by his fellow-workmen, as if he were one of themselves who had somehow elevated himself to a superior height by virtue of their backs.  If William Evarts had acquired prosperity through gambling in mines, they would have had none of that feeling; they would have recognized the legitimacy of luck in the conduct of affairs.  He was in a way a reproach to them.  “Why can’t you get along and save as well as William Evarts?” many a man’s monitor asked of him.  “He doesn’t earn any more than you do, and has had as many expenses in his family.”  The man not being able to answer the question to his own credit, disliked William Evarts who had instigated it.

Andrew, who had in his character a vein of sterling justice, yet felt that he almost hated William Evarts as he stood there before him, small and spare, snapping as it were with energy like electric wires, the strong lines in his clean-shaven face evident in the glare of the street-lamp.

“Good-evening,” Andrew said, and he spoke like a criminal before a judge, and at that moment he felt like one.

“Good-evening,” responded the other man.  Then he added, in a hushed voice at first, for he had fineness to appreciate a sort of indecency in dunning, in asking a man for even his rightful due, and he had a regard for possible listening ears of femininity, “I was passing by, and I thought I’d call and see if it was convenient for you to pay me that money.”

“I’m sorry,” Andrew responded, with utter subjection.  He looked and felt ignoble.  “I haven’t got it, Evarts.”

“When are you going to have it?” asked the other, in a slightly raised, ominous voice.

“Just as soon as I can possibly get it,” replied Andrew, softly and piteously.  Ellen’s chamber was directly overhead.  He thought of the possibility of her overhearing.

“Look at here, Andrew Brewster,” said the other man, and this time with brutal, pitiless force.  When it came to the prospect of losing money he became as merciless as a machine.  Something diabolical in remorselessness seemed to come to the surface, and reveal wheels of grinding for his fellow-men.  “Look at here,” he said, “I want to know right out, and no dodging.  Have you got the money to pay me—­yes or no?”

“No,” said Andrew then, with a manliness born of desperation.  He had the feeling of one who will die fighting.  He wished that Evarts would speak lower on account of Ellen, but he was prepared to face even that.  The man’s speech came with the gliddering rush of an electric car; it was a concentration of words into one intensity of meaning; he elided everything possible, he ran all his words together.  He spoke something in this wise:  “GoddamnyouAndrewBrewster, for comin’to borrow money to buy your girl a watch when you had nothin’ to pay for’t with, whatbusinesshadyourgirlwithawatchanyhow,I’dliket’know?  My girl’ain’tgotno watch.  I’veputmymoneyinthebank.  It’srobbery.  I’llhavethelawonye.  I’llsueyou.  I’ll—­”