Norman, living alone and living very quietly indeed, might have got along for a while on that sum, if he had taken much thought about expenditures, had persisted in such severe economies as using street cars instead of taxicabs and drinking whisky at dinner instead of his customary quart of six-dollar champagne.  Norman, the married man, could not escape disaster for a single month on an income so pitiful.

Probably on the morning on which he set out for downtown in search of money enough to enable him to live decently, not less than ten thousand men on Manhattan Island left comfortable or luxurious homes faced with precisely the same problem.  And each and every one of them knew that on that day or some day soon they must find the money demanded imperiously by their own and their families’ tastes and necessities or be ruined—­flung out, trampled upon, derided as failures, hated by the “loved ones” they had caused to be humiliated.  And every man of that legion had a fine, an unusually fine brain—­resourceful, incessant, teeming with schemes for wresting from those who had dollars the dollars they dared not go home without.  And those ten thousand quickest and most energetic brains, by their mode of thought and action, determined the thought and action of the entire country—­gave the mercenary and unscrupulous cast to the whole social system.  Themselves the victims of conditions, they were the bellwethers to millions of victims compelled to follow their leadership.

Norman, by the roundabout mode of communication he and Tetlow had established, summoned his friend and backer to his office.  “Tetlow,” he began straight off, “I’ve got to have more money.”

“How much?” said Tetlow.

“More than you can afford to advance me.”

“How much?” repeated Tetlow.

“Three thousand a month right away—­at the least.”

“That’s a big sum,” said Tetlow.

“Yes, for a man used to dealing in small figures.  But in reality it’s a moderate income.”

“Few large families spend more.”

“Few large or small families in my part of New York pinch along on so little.”

“What has happened to you?” said Tetlow, dropping into a chair and folding his fat hands on his stomach.

“Why?” asked Norman.

“It’s in your voice—­in your face—­in your cool demand for a big income.”

“Let’s start right, old man,” said Norman.  “Don’t call thirty-six thousand a year big or you’ll think it big.  And if you think it big, you will stay little.”

Tetlow nodded.  “I’m ready to grow,” said he.  “Now what’s happened to you?”

“I’ve got married,” replied Norman.

“I thought so.  To Miss—­Hallowell?”

“To Miss Hallowell.  So my way’s clear, and I’m going to resume the march.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve two plans.  Either will serve.  The first is yours—­the one you partly revealed to me the other day.”