Orders were pouring in; there was a run on some of the back stock, and the figure had gone up.

Even the manager appeared elated.

As for Morris, who had almost forgotten the meaning of good news, he longed to sob like a little child; he could have caught the manager (a pallid man with startled eyebrows) to his bosom; he could have found it in his generosity to give a cheque (for a small sum) to every clerk in the counting-house.

As he sat and opened his letters a chorus of airy vocalists sang in his brain, to most exquisite music, 'This whole concern may be profitable yet, profitable yet, profitable yet.' To him, in this sunny moment of relief, enter a Mr Rodgerson, a creditor, but not one who was expected to be pressing, for his connection with the firm was old and regular.
'O, Finsbury,' said he, not without embarrassment, 'it's of course only fair to let you know--the fact is, money is a trifle tight--I have some paper out--for that matter, every one's complaining--and in short--' 'It has never been our habit, Rodgerson,' said Morris, turning pale.
'But give me time to turn round, and I'll see what I can do; I daresay we can let you have something to account.' 'Well, that's just where is,' replied Rodgerson.

'I was tempted; I've let the credit out of MY hands.' 'Out of your hands ?' repeated Morris.