That very evening Jesse Bulrush, elated by his own good fortune in capturing Cupid, had told him as sadly as was possible, while his own fortunes were, as he thought, soaring, that every avenue of credit seemed closed; that neither bank nor money-lender, trust nor loan company, would let him have the ten thousand dollars necessary for him to hold his place in the syndicate; while each of the other members of the clique had flatly and cheerfully refused, saying they were busy carrying their own loads.

Crozier had commanded Jesse not to approach them, but the fat idealist had an idea that his tongue had a gift of wheedling, and he believed that he could make them "shell out," as he put it.

He had failed, and he was obliged to say so, when Crozier, suspecting, brought him to book.
"They mean to crowd you out--that's their game," Bulrush had said.
"They've closed up all the ways to cash or credit.

They're laying to do you out of your share.

Unless you put up the cash within the four days left, they'll put it through without you.