Of late he had met heavy
losses. However, he was a big man, Sherman reasoned; he should have
large resources. Both of them were former army officers. That should
prove a bond between them. At Captain Folsom's house an old negro
servant opened the door, his wrinkled black face anxious.
"Mars Joe, he ain't right well dis evenin'," he said, evasively, but
when Sherman persisted he was ushered into a back room where sat the
redoubtable captain, all the fierceness of his burnside whiskers, the
austerity of his West Point manner, melted in the indignity of sneezes
and wheezes.
Sherman looked at him in frank dismay.
"Heavens, man," he said, "I'm sorry to intrude on you in this condition
... but my errand won't wait...."
"What do you want, Bill Sherman?" the sick man glowered.
"Money," Sherman answered crisply. "You know, perhaps, that Page, Bacon
& Co. have failed. Everyone's afraid of his deposits. We've got to have
cash tomorrow. How about your--?"
With a cry of irritation Folsom threw up his hands. "Money! God
Almighty! Sherman, there's not a loose dollar in town. My agent, Van
Winkle, has walked his legs off, talked himself hoarse.... He can't get
anything.
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