March, and I was offered double its face value last week."
"A hundred dollars," said the farmer musingly, noting the handsome medallion figure at the top of the stock certificate.
"Yes, and worth two hundred, as I tell you. I wouldn't sell it at any price, but I'm short of ready cash, and I'll pay eight per cent. interest and give the next dividend as a bonus, for a loan of seventy-five dollars for thirty days. I'm proud and particular about my business, and I dislike to ask my friends for the loan."
"Say," observed the farmer, dazzled at the sight of the pretty document, "you mean you'll give all that security and interest for a loan of seventy-five dollars?"
"To an honest man who won't run away with the security, yes."
"I can show you letters telling you who I am," declared the farmer, perking up with pride. "Straight business with me, neighbor. I reckon I can dig up seventy-five dollars on any occasion."
"Look over the certificate, friend. You'll find the signatures all right. D. Burlingame Gould, president—you've heard of the Goulds?"
"In the paper, certainly."
"He's one of them. Robert Winstanley Astorbilt, secretary, prominent New York banker. Ex-
