The sun was
completely masked in a seamless dust-gray cloud. He met Vance
with a brown parcel (beefsteak for breakfast) under his arm.
"Hello, Jim! How are ye, so early in the morning?"
"Blessed near used up."
"That so? What's the matter?"
"I d'know," said Jim, listlessly. "Bilious, I guess. Headache-
stomach bad."
"Oh! Well, now, you try them pills I was tellin' you of." Arrived at
the bank, he let himself in and locked the door behind him. He
stood in the middle of the floor a few minutes, then went behind
the railing and sat down. He didn't build a fire, though it was cold
and damp, and he shivered as he sat leaning on the desk. At length
he drew a large sheet of paper toward him and wrote something
on it in a heavy hand.
He was writing on this when Lincoln entered at the back, whistling
boyishly. "Hello, Jim! Ain't you up early? No fire, eh?" He rattled
at the stove.
Sanford said nothing, but finished his writing. Then he said,
quietly, "You needn't build a fire on my account, Link."
"Why not?"
"Well, I'm used up."
"What's the matter?"
"I'm sick, and the business has gone to the devil." He looked out of
the window.
Link dropped the poker, and came around behind the counter, and
stared at Sanford with fallen mouth.
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