You've sold me out like a dog, John--like a dog!" Barclay, sitting at his desk, playing with a paper-weight, snarled back: "Why don't you get in the market yourself, if you think I've sold you out?
Why don't you lend the old man some money ?" "And take it from the bank you've just got done robbing of everything but the wall-paper ?" Hendricks retorted.
"No," cried Barclay, in a loud voice.

"Come off your high horse and take the profits we'll make on our wheat, pay off old Brownwell and marry her." "And let the bank bust and the farmers slide ?" asked Hendricks, "and buy back Molly with stolen money?
Is that your idea ?" "Well," Barclay snapped, "you have your choice, so if you think more of the bank and your old hayseeds than you do of Molly, don't come blubbering around me about selling her." "John," sighed Hendricks, after a long wrestle--a final contest with his demon, "I've gone all over that.

And I have decided that if I've got to swindle seventy-five or a hundred farmers--most of them old soldiers on their homesteads--out of their little all, and cheat five hundred depositors out of their money to get Molly, she and I wouldn't be very happy when we thought of the price, and we'd always think of the price." His demon was limp in the background of his soul as he added: "Here are some papers I brought over.

Let's get back to the settlement--fix them up and bring them over to the bank this morning, will you ?" And laying a package carefully on the table, Hendricks turned and went quickly out of the room.
After Hendricks left the office that May morning, Barclay sat whistling the air of the song of the "Evening Star," looking blankly at a picture of Wagner hanging beside a picture of Jay Gould.

The tune seemed to restore his soul.