“He has known how to collect in the money that’s due him,” stated Mr. Files, “compound interest and all!  He was only getting back his investments.  But he has never put out any of the kind of capital that earns liking or respect or love.  He has woke up to what he has been missing.  He’s trying to collect what he has never invested.  And he can’t do it, mister!  No, sir, he can’t!”

The drummer was a young man.  He asked a natural question.  “Isn’t the girl willing to be an old man’s darling?”

“You might go over to Britt’s bank and ask her,” suggested Mr. Files, crisply.  “She’s bookkeeper there.  But you’d better not let that young fellow that’s cashier overhear you.”

“So that’s it?  Say, events in Egypt in the near future may make some of the mummies here sit up and take notice!”

“Shouldn’t wonder a mite,” agreed Mr. Files, beginning to gather up the dishes.

CHAPTER II

FIRST COLLECTIONS

That morning Mr. Britt did not dawdle in the hotel office with his cigar.  He knew perfectly well that he merely had been making a pretense of enjoying that sybaritism, putting on his new clubman airs along with his dye and his toupee.

Among other curios in the office was a dusty, stuffed alligator, hanging from the ceiling over the desk.  The jaws were widely agape and Mr. Britt always felt an inclination to yawn when he looked alligatorward.  Therefore, the alligator offended Mr. Britt by suggesting drowsiness in the morning; Mr. Britt, up early, and strictly after any worm that showed itself along the financial path, resented the feeling of daytime sleepiness as heresy.  Furthermore, that morning the gaping alligator also suggested the countenance of the open-mouthed Files whom Britt had just left in the dining room, and Files had been irritating.  Britt scowled at the alligator, lighted a cigar, and hustled outdoors; he had the feeling that the day was to be an important one in his affairs.

Egypt’s Pharaoh was able to view considerable of the town from the tavern porch.  The tavern was an old stage-coach house and was boosted high on a hill, according to the pioneer plan of location.  The houses of the little village straggled down the hill.

The aspect was not uninviting, seen under the charitable cloak of February’s snow, sun-touched by the freshly risen luminary, the white expanses glinting; all the rocks and ledges and the barren shapes were covered.  But under summer’s frank sunlight Egypt was as disheartening a spectacle as a racked old horse, ribs and hip bones outthrust, waiting for the knacker’s offices.

There were men in Egypt—­men whose reverses had put them in a particularly ugly mood—­who said out loud in places where Britt could not hear them that the money-grabber could not get much more than twelve-per-cent blood out of the nag he had ridden for so long, and might as well set knife to neck and put the town out of its misery.