“Ah me!” sighed Tompkins, turning to his desk as soon as this man had departed.  “Here comes more trouble.  That miserly wretch has no more use for his money than the man in the moon.  It seems to give him delight to make every one feel his power.  It is for no other reason than this, that I am now to be harassed half out of my life in order to raise ten thousand dollars in a week, besides meeting my other payments.  I must try and get some one to take the mortgage he is about releasing.”

While thus musing, the individual who had just left him was walking slowly down Market Street, with his eyes upon the pavement, in deep thought.  He was a short, stoutly built old man, dressed in a well-worn suit of brown broadcloth.  His hat was white, large in the brim, low in the crown, and pulled down so heavily on the high collar of his coat, that it turned up behind in a very decided way, indicating the save-all propensities of its owner.  His face was as hard as iron:  it was deeply seamed by years or the indulgence of the baser cupidities of a perverted nature.  His lower lip projected slightly beyond the upper that was pressed closely upon it.  His small gray eyes were deeply sunk beneath a wrinkled forehead, and twinkled like stars when any thing excited him; usually they were as calm and passionless as any part of his face.

This man had never engaged, during his whole life, in any useful branch of business.  Money was the god he worshipped, and to gain this, he was ready to make almost any sacrifice.  He started in life with five thousand dollars—­a legacy from a distant relative.  To risk this sum, or any portion of it, in trade, would have been, in his view, the most egregious folly.  His first investment was in six per cent. ground-rents, from which he received three hundred dollars per annum.  It cost him two hundred to live; he had, therefore, at the end of the year, a surplus of one hundred dollars.  He was casting about in his mind what he should do with this in, order to make it profitable, when a hard-pressed tradesman asked him for the loan of a hundred dollars for a short time.  The idea of loaning his money, when first presented, almost made his hair stand on end.  He shook his head, and uttered a decided “No.”  It so happened that the man was so much in need of money, that he became importunate.

“I know you have it, if you would only lend it, Wolford,” said he.  “Let me have a hundred dollars for a month, and I will give you a good interest for it, and security besides.”

“What kind of security?” eagerly asked the miser, his face brightening.  The idea had struck him, as being a good one.  The man was a tailor.

“I will let you hold Mr. S——­P——­’s note, at six months, for one hundred and fifty dollars, as security.”

Wolford shook his head.

“He might die or break, and then where would be my hundred dollars?”

“I would pay it to you.”

Wolford continued to shake his head.