Presently the notary came with the inevitable demand. He was a cheerful
fellow in his sorry business, blithe as an old stager of an undertaker
at a first-class funeral. He chatted about the crisis, and, as a matter
of course, brought all the latest news from State Street. Monroe
listened to one piece of news, but had ears for no more. "Sandford and
Fayerweather had failed, and the old Vortex, which they had managed, was
dead broke, cleaned out."
Mr. Lindsay was not the only heart-stricken man who left the
counting-room that day.
CHAPTER XVI.
Monroe was walking sorrowfully homeward, when he met Easelmann near the
corner of Summer Street. He was in no humor for conversation, but he
could not civilly avoid the painter, who evidently was waiting to speak
to him.
"Glad to see one man that isn't a capitalist. You and I, Monroe, are
independent of banks and brokers."
Monroe faintly smiled.
"This is a deadly time here in Boston,--a horrible stagnation. Every
man avoids his neighbor as though he had the plague; and we have no
Boccaccio to tell us stories while the dead-carts go by.
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