Then it occurred to him that his money would be drawing interest at the bank.
"But for each day's $2,801.12, I am getting seven times as much," he soliloquized, as he finally got into bed.

"That means $19,607.84 a day, a clear profit of $16,806.72.

That's pretty good--yes, too good.

I wonder if the bank couldn't oblige me by not charging interest." The figures kept adding and subtracting themselves as he dozed off, and once during the night he dreamed that Swearengen Jones had sentenced him to eat a million dollars' worth of game and salad at the French restaurant.

He awoke with the consciousness that he had cried aloud, "I can do it, but a year is not very long in an affair of this kind." It was nine o'clock when Brewster finally rose, and after his tub he felt ready to cope with any problem, even a substantial breakfast.