When Egypt Went Broke | Page 4

in the fields, he'll
have it at the other end of his life, when he's let run to pasture, spavin
or no spavin. Why don't Egypt hold off and let Uncle What's-his-name
enjoy his new hair and hopes?"
"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.
Right behind Britt, as he stood on the porch, was a sheaf of yellowed
papers nailed to the side of the tavern. Nobody in Egypt bothered to
look at the papers; all the taxpayers knew what they were; the papers
were signed by the high sheriff of the county and represented that all
the real estate of Egypt had been sold over and over for taxes and had
been bid in by the town as a municipality--and there the matter rested.
Egypt, in other words, had been trying to lift itself by the bootstraps
and was not merely still standing on the ground, but was considerably
sunk in the hole that had been dug by the boot heels while Egypt was
jumping up and down. Mr. Britt was not troubled by the sight of the
yellowed papers; he owned mortgages and pulled in profit by the legal
curiosities known as "Holmes notes"--leeches of particular drawing
power. Mr. Britt did not own real estate. Egypt, in its financial stress
and snarl of litigation, was a wonderful operating field for a man with
loose money and a tight nature.
From far swamps the whack of axes sounded. Mr. Britt knew that men
were cutting hoop poles and timber for shooks; Egypt earned ready
money with which to pay interest, getting out shooks and hoop poles.
That occupation had been the resource of the pioneers, and the
descendants stuck to the work, knowing how to do it better than
anything else. There was not enough soil for farming on a real money-
making scale. The