One night Dag Daughtry sat at a table in the saloon called the Pile-drivers' Home.

He was in a parlous predicament.

Harder than ever had it been to secure odd jobs, and he had reached the end of his savings.

Earlier in the evening he had had a telephone conference with the Ancient Mariner, who had reported only progress with an exceptionally strong nibble that very day from a retired quack doctor.
"Let me pawn my rings," the Ancient Mariner had urged, not for the first time, over the telephone.
"No, sir," had been Daughtry's reply.

"We need them in the business.
They're stock in trade.