At last he was forced to give up lunch and get along as best he could on two scanty meals a day; he grew thin and haggard, his Adam's apple projected redly above a frayed collar, his trousers grew wrinkled and shiny, and he looked ready to take his place in the "bread line." Finally he spent his last cent on a pretzel and made ready to "turn in his checks." At this point Peters paid a last visit to his friend, who was visibly shocked at his emaciated appearance, for his eyes burned with the fever of starvation and his jaw was set in a pitiful determination to keep going until he dropped.
"Mr.Banks," said he grimly, "unless you give me something to do I'll go under.

The fact is, I'm starving!" Mr.Banks look at him critically.
"Pretty near ready to give up, eh ?" he remarked.

"Better chuck it and go back! I guess I was wrong when I told you to come down here." "Not yet," answered Peters doggedly.

"When I go back it'll be in a wooden box." "Well," replied Mr.Banks, "I'm sorry; but there isn't a thing in the office I can give you." He pondered a minute.

"I've got a lot of old judgments against a fellow named Rosenheim--in the cigar business, but he's no good--judgment proof--and they aren't worth the paper they're written on." "Give them to me!" almost shouted Peters.
Mr.Banks laughed.
"You can have ninety per cent.