The House of Mammon by Fred M. White

Sairson sat in his study with a mass of correspondence before him.

Usually he prided himself upon the summary way he dealt with his letters, but they lay before him neglected and almost forgotten. It was nearly noon, and he had not written a line. His face wore a moody frown, and his hand shook so much that the ash dropped from his cigar on to the table. Something stirred uneasily within him--something that might perhaps be called conscience. Sairson would have scoffed at the suggestion and would preferably have granted that he had been working too hard and needed a holiday. Six months ago the mere idea of a holiday would have called up all his scorn. He had never had a holiday in his life, and look at him! People were too careful of themselves in these days. He did not believe in mollycoddling. A holiday, indeed!