She was two years out
from London, by the Cape of Good Hope, India, and the
Archipelago; and was now bound for San Francisco in the
hope of working homeward round the Horn. Her captain
was one Jacob Trent. He had retired some five years
before to a suburban cottage, a patch of cabbages, a
gig, and the conduct of what he called a Bank. The
name appears to have been misleading. Borrowers were
accustomed to choose works of art and utility in the
front shop; loaves of sugar and bolts of broadcloth
were deposited in pledge; and it was a part of the
manager's duty to dash in his gig on Saturday evenings
from one small retailer's to another, and to annex in
each the bulk of the week's takings. His was thus an
active life, and, to a man of the type of a rat, filled
with recondite joys. An unexpected loss, a lawsuit,
and the unintelligent commentary of the judge upon the
bench, combined to disgust him of the business. I was
so extraordinarily fortunate as to find, in an old
newspaper, a report of the proceedings in Lyall v. The
Cardiff Mutual Accommodation Banking Co.
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