“Ah, Jane, you keeping well,” I asked. “You’d have the shirt off my back,” one guy accused as we re-possessed his farm, hell I let him borrow his own cart to get to the train depot, and the shirt was full of holes anyway, but things were so bad we were literally taking paintings, furniture the lot off guys who were respected citizens last year, Silas could never have done it, but hey, it was them or me. “Sure does,” he laughed, “But what in the hell did you get all this food for?” He asked. “John Lawson, manager at Grays bank,” I replied. The bank books were dire, although most of the losses were paper, except the damned brokers fees, and at least we knew Meyer was Europe based, like the Rothschilds someone we could rely on.
