that day, too, he had held it almost concealed against his chest.
"My young friend," the lender said, "I wish you every business blessing. I expect you to go far. And do not forget that this little note of ours comes due on January 18."
Bert went out, and down the stairs; and only then did he remember that he had promised Tom Woods to go to his father should anything queer turn up in the affairs of The Shoppers' Service.
Sam was standing in the doorway, waiting and watching, when he came back. "How did it go?" the clerk asked eagerly.
Bert laid the money on the counter.
"He gave it to you? Now we can breathe again. This is a life-saver. You signed a note, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"When is it due?"
"In sixty days."
"He wants his money back fast enough, doesn't he? Well, the Christmas trade will take care of that."
"He made me sign a note for $175," said Bert.
Sam gave acry of indignation. "He did? The blood-sucker! And he's always been calling you 'my fine young friend.' That's friendship, isn't it?" The clerk began to pace the store in agitation, and to scratch his head, and to mutter to himself. Presently his steps slowed. "Anyway,"
