CHAPTER XXXIX
In ordinary times, news is slow to make its way to the ears of thegreat. Protected from the vulgar by his deer park, looking out fromthe stillness of his tall-windowed library on his plantations and hisornamental water, Sir Charles Woosenham was removed by six miles offine champaign country from the common fret and fume of Aldersbury. Heno longer maintained, as his forefathers had maintained, a house inthe town, and in all likelihood he would not have heard the talk aboutthe bank, or caught the alarm in time, if one of his neighbors had notmade it his business to arouse him.
Acherley, baffled in his attempt at blackmail, and thirsting forrevenge, had bethought him of the Chairman of the Valleys Railroad. Hehad been quick to see that he could use him, and perhaps he had evenfancied that it was his duty to use him. At any rate, one finemorning, some days before this eventful Wednesday, he had mounted hisold hunter, Nimrod, and had cantered across country by gaps and gatesfrom Acherley to Woosenham Park. He had entered by a hunting wicket,and leaping the ha-ha, he had presented himself to Sir Charles tenminutes after the latter had left the breakfast table, and withdrawnhimself after his fashion of a morning, into a dignified seclusion.
Alas, two minutes of Acherley's conversation proved enough to destroythe baronet's complacency for the day. Acherley blurted out his news,neither sparing oaths nor mincing matters. "Ovington's going!" hedeclared. "He's bust-up--smashed, man!" And striking the table with aviolence that made his host wince, "He's bust-up, I tell you," herepeated, "and I think you ought to know it! There's ten thousand ofthe Company's money in his hands, and if there's nothing done, it willbe lost to a penny!"
Sir Charles stared, stared aghast. "You don't say so?" he exclaimed."I can't believe it!"
"Well, it's true! True, man, true, as you'll soon find out!"
"But this is terrible! Terrible!"
Acherley shrugged his shoulders. "It'll be terrible for him," hesneered.
"But--but what can we do?" the other asked, recovering from hissurprise. "If it is as bad as you say----"
"Bad? And do, man? Why, get the money out! Get it out before it is toolate--if it isn't too late already. You must draw it out, Woosenham!At once! This morning! Without the delay of a minute!"
"I!" Sir Charles could not conceal the unhappiness which the proposalcaused him. No proposal, indeed, could have been less to his taste. Hewould have to make up his mind, he would have to act, he would have toset himself against others, he would have to engage in a vulgarstruggle. A long vista of misery and discomfort opened before him. "I?Oh, but--" and with the ingenuity of a weak man he snatched at thefirst formal difficulty that occurred to him--"but I can't draw itout! It needs another signature besides mine."
"The Secretary's? Bourdillon's? Of course it does! But you must gethis signature. D--n it, man, you must get it. If I were you I shouldgo into town this minute. I wouldn't lose an hour!"
Sir Charles winced afresh at the idea of taking action so strong. Hehad not only a great distaste for any violent step, but he had alsothe feelings of a gentleman. To take on himself such a responsibilityas was now suggested was bad; but to confront Ovington, who had gainedconsiderable influence over him, and to tell the banker to his facethat he distrusted his stability--good heavens, was it possible thatsuch horrors could be asked of him? Flustered and dismayed, he wentback to his original standpoint. "But--but there may be nothing inthis," he objected weakly. "Possibly nothing at all. Mere gossip, mydear sir," with dignity. "In that case we might be putting ourselvesin the wrong--very much in the wrong."
Acherley did not take the trouble to hide his contempt. "Nothing init?" he replied, and he tossed off a second glass of the famousWoosenham cherry-brandy which the butler, unbidden, had placed besidehim. "Nothing in it, man? You'll find there's the devil in it unlessyou act! Enough in it to ease us of ten thousand pounds! If the bankfails, and I'll go bail it will, not a penny of that money will yousee again! And I tell you fair, the shareholders will look to you,Woosenham, to make it good. I'm not responsible. I've no authority tosign, and the others are just tools of that man Ovington, and afraidto call their souls their own! You're Chairman--you're Chairman, and,by G--d, they'll look to you if the money is left in the bank andlost!"
Sir Charles quailed. This was worse and worse! Worse and worse! Hedropped the air of carelessness which he had affected to assume, andno more flustered man than he looked out on the world that day over awhite lawn stock or wore a dark blue coat with gilt buttons, and drabkerseymeres with Hessians. But, again, true to his instincts, hegrasped at a matter of form, hoping desperately that it might save himfrom the precipice towards which his friend was so vigorously pushinghim. "But--my good man," he argued, "I can't draw out the money--thewhole of the capital of the concern, so far as it is subscribed--on myown responsibility! Of course I can't!" wiping the perspiration fromhis brow. "Of course I can't!" peevishly. "I must have the authorityof the Board first. We must call a meeting of the Board. That's theproper procedure."
Acherley rose to his feet, openly contemptuous. "Oh, hang yourmeeting!" he said. "And give a seven days' notice, eh? If you aregoing to stand on those P's and Q's I've said my say. The money's lostalready! However, that's not my business, and I've warned you. I'vewarned you. You'll not forget that, Woosenham? You'll exonerate me, atany rate."
"But I can't--God bless my soul, Acherley," the poor man remonstrated,"I can't act like that in a moment!" And Sir Charles stared aghast athis too violent associate, who had brought into the calm of his lifeso rude a blast of the outer air. "I can't override all theformalities! I can't, indeed, even if it is as serious as you say itis--and I can hardly believe that--with such a man as Ovington at thehelm!"
"You'll soon see how serious it is!" the other retorted. And satisfiedthat he had laid the train, he shrugged his shoulders, tossed off athird glass of the famous cherry-brandy, and took himself off withoutmuch ceremony.
He left a flustered, nervous, unhappy man behind him. "Good G--d!" thebaronet muttered, as he rose and paced his library, all the peace andpleasantness of his life shattered. "What's to be done? And why--whyin the world did I ever put my hand to this matter!" One by one andplainly all the difficulties of the position rose before him, theawkwardness and the risk. He must open the thing to Bourdillon--initself a delicate matter--and obtain his signature. If he got that, hedoubted if he had even then power to draw the whole amount in thisway, and doubted, too, whether Ovington would surrender it, no meetingof the Board having been held? And if he obtained the money, what washe to do with it? Pay it into Dean's? But if things were as bad asAcherley said, was even Dean's safe? For, of a certainty, if heremoved the money to Dean's and it were lost, he would be responsiblefor every penny--every penny of it! There was no doubt about that.
Yet if he left it at Ovington's and it were lost, what then? It wasnot his custom to drink of a morning, but his perturbation was sogreat that he took a glass of the cherry-brandy. He really needed it.
He could not tell what to do. In every direction he saw some doubt orsome difficulty arise to harass him. He was no man of business. In allmatters connected with the Company he had leant on Ovington, anddeprived of his stay, he wavered, turning like a weathercock in thewind, making no progress.
For two days, though terribly uneasy in his mind, he halted betweentwo opinions. He did nothing. Then tidings began to come to his ears,low murmurs of the storm which was raging afar off; and he wrote toBourdillon asking him to come out and see him--he thought that hecould broach the matter more easily on his own ground. But two dayselapsed, during which he received no answer, and in the meantime thewarnings that reached him grew louder and more disquieting. His valetlet drop a discreet word while shaving him. A neighbor hoped that hehad nothing in Ovington's--things were in a bad way, he heard. Hisbutler asked leave to go to town to cash a note. Gradually he waswrought up to such a pitch of uneasiness that he could not sleep forthinking of the ten thousand pounds, and the things that would be sa
idof him, and the figure that he would cut if, after Acherley's warning,the money were lost. When Wednesday morning came, he made up his mindto take advice, and he could think of no one on whose wisdom he coulddepend more surely than on the old Squire's at Garth; though, to besure, to apply to him was, considering his attitude towards theRailroad, to eat humble pie.
Still, he made up his mind to that course, and at eleven he took mylady's landau and postillions, and started on his sixteen-mile driveto Garth. He avoided the town, though it lay only a little out of hisway, but he saw enough of the unusual concourse on the road to add tohis alarm. Once, nervous and fidgety, he was on the point of givingthe order to turn the horses' heads for Aldersbury--he would go directto the bank and see Ovington! But before he spoke he changed his mindagain, and half-past twelve saw him wheeling off the main road andcantering, with some pomp and much cracking of whips, up the roughascent that led to Garth.
He was so far in luck that he found the Squire not only at home, butstanding before the door, a gaunt, stooping figure, leaning on hisstick, with Calamy at his elbow. "Who is it?" the old man asked, as hecaught the sound of galloping hoofs and the roll of the wheels. Heturned his sightless eyes in the direction of the approachingcarriage.
"I think it's Sir Charles, sir," Calamy answered. "It's his jackets."
"Ay! Well, I won't go in, unless need be. Go you to the stables andbid 'em wait."
Sir Charles alighted, and bidding the postillions draw off, greetedhis host. "I want your advice, Squire," he said, putting his armthrough the old man's, and, after a few ceremonial words he drew him afew paces from the door. It was a clear, mild day, and the sun wasshining pleasantly. "I'm in a position of difficulty, Griffin," hesaid. "You'll tell me, I know, that I've only myself to thank for it,and perhaps that is so. But that does not mend matters. The position,you see, is this." And with many apologies and some shamefacedness heexplained the situation.
The Squire listened with gloomy looks, and, beyond grunting from timeto time in a manner far from cheering, he did not interrupt hisvisitor. "Of course, I ought not to have touched the matter," thebaronet confessed, when he had finished his story. "I know what youthink about that, Griffin."
"Of course you ought not!" The Squire struck his stick on the gravel."I warned you, man, and you wouldn't take the warning. You wouldn'tlisten to me. Why, damme, Woosenham, if _we_ do these things, if weonce begin to go on 'Change' and sell and buy, where'll you draw theline? Where'll you draw the line? How are you going to shut out thetinkers and tailors and Brummagem and Manchester men when you makeyourselves no better than them! How? By Jove, you may as well give 'emall votes at once, and in ten years' time we shall have bagmen on theBench and Jews in the House! Aldshire--we've kept up the fence prettywell in Aldshire, and kept our hands pretty clean, too, and it's beenmy pride and my father's to belong to this County. We're pure bloodhere. We've kept ourselves to ourselves, begad! But once begin thiskind of thing----"
"I know, Griffin, I know," Woosenham admitted meekly. "You were rightand I was wrong, Squire. But the thing is done, and what am I to donow? If I stand by and this money is lost----"
"Ay, ay! You'll have dropped us all into a pretty scalding pot, then!"
"Just so, just so." The baronet had pleaded guilty, but he was growingrestive under the other's scolding, and he plucked up spirit."Granted. But, after all, your nephew's in the concern, Griffin. He'sin it, too, you know, and----"
He stopped, shocked by the effect of his words. For the old man hadwithdrawn his arm and had stepped back, trembling in all his limbs."Not with my good will!" he cried, and he struck his stick withviolence on the ground. "Never! never!" he repeated, passionately."But you are right," bitterly, "you are right, Woosenham. The taint isin the air, the taint of the City and the 'Change, and we cannotescape it even here--even here in this house! In the concern? Ay, heis! And I tell you I wish to heaven that he had been in his gravefirst!"
The other, a kindly man, was seriously concerned. "Oh. come, Squire,"he said; and he took the old man affectionately by the arm again."It's no such matter as all that. You make too much of it. He's young,and the younger generation look at these things differently. Afterall, there's more to be said for him than for me."
The Squire groaned.
"And, anyway, my old friend," Woosenham continued gently, "advise me.Time presses." He looked at his watch. "What shall I do? What had Ibetter do? I know I am safe in your hands."
The Squire sighed, but the other's confidence was soothing, and withthe sigh he put off his own trouble. He reflected, his face turned tothe ground at his feet. "Do you think him honest?" he asked, after apause.
"Who? Ovington?"
"Ay," gloomily. "Ovington? The banker there."
"Well, I do think he is. Yes, I do think so. I've no reason to thinkotherwise."
"He's a director, ain't he?"
"Of the Railroad? Yes."
"Responsible as you are?"
"Yes, I suppose he is!"
"A kind of trustee, then, ain't he--for the shareholders."
Sir Charles had not seen it in that light before. He looked at hisadviser with growing respect. "Well, I take it he is--now you mentionit, Griffin," he said.
"Then"--this, it was plain, was the verdict, and the other listenedwith all his ears--"if he is honest, he'll not have mixed the moneywith his own. He'll not have put it to an ordinary account, but to aTrust account--so that it will remain the property of the Company, andnot be liable to calls on him. That's what he should have done,anyway. Whether he has done it or not is another matter. He's pressed,hard pressed, I hear, and I don't know that we can expect the lastspit of honesty from such as him. It's not what I've been brought upto expect. But," with a return of his former bitterness, "we may bechanging places with 'em even in that! God knows! And I do knowsomething that gives me to believe that he may behave as he should."
"You do?" Sir Charles exclaimed, his spirits rising. "You do thinkso?"
"Well, I do," reluctantly. "I'll speak as I know. But if I were you Ishould go to him now and tell him, as one man to another, that that'swhat you expect; and if he hangs back, tell him plain that if thatmoney's not put aside he'll have to answer to the law for it. Whetherthat will frighten him or not," the Squire concluded, "I'm not lawyerenough to say. But you'll learn his mind."
"I'll go in at once," Sir Charles replied, thankfully.
"I'm going in myself. If you'll take me in--you've four horses--itwill save time, and my people shall fetch me out in an hour or so."
Sir Charles assented with gratitude, thankful for his support; andCalamy was summoned. Two minutes later they got away from the door ina splutter of flying gravel and dead beech leaves. They clattered downthe stony avenue, over the bridge, and into the high road.
Probably of all those--and they were many--who travelled that day withtheir faces set towards the bank, they were the last to start. IfTuesday had been the town's day, this was certainly the country's day.For one thing, there was a market; for another, the news of somethingamiss, of something that threatened the little hoard of each--theslowly-garnered deposit or the hardly-won note--had journeyed by thistime far and wide. It had reached alike the remote flannel-mill lappedin the folds of the border-hills, and the secluded hamlet buried amidorchards, and traceable on the landscape only by the grey tower of itschurch. On foot and on horse-back, riding and tying, in gigs andass-carts, in market vans and carriers' carts, the countryside camein--all who had anything to lose, and many who had nothing at stake,but were moved by a vague alarm. Even before daybreak the roads hadbegun to echo the sound of their marching. They came by the EastBridge, laboring up the steep, winding Cop; by the West Bridge andunder the gabled fronts of Maerdol, along the river bank, before thehouse of the old sea-dog whose name was a household word, and whoseportrait hung behind the mayor's chair, and so up the Foregate--fromevery quarter they came. Before ten the streets were teeming withcountry-folk, whose fears were not allayed by the news that allthrough the
previous day the townsfolk had been drawing their money.Sullen tradesmen, victims of the general depression, eyed the marchfrom their shop doors, and some, fearing trouble, put up half theirshutters. More took a malicious amusement in telling the rustics thatthey were too late, and that the bank would not open.
The alarm was heightened by a chance word which had fallen fromFrederick Welsh. The lawyer's last thought had been to do harm, forhis interest in common with all substantial men lay the other way. Butthat morning, before he had dressed, or so much as shaved, his officeand even his dining-room had been invaded. Scared clients hadoverwhelmed him with questions--some that he could answer and morethat he could not. He could tell them the law as to their securities,whether they were lodged for safety, or pawned for loans, or mortgagedon general account. But he could not tell them whether Ovington wassolvent, or whether the bank would open, or whether Dean's wasaffected; and it was for answers to these questions that theyclamored. In the end, badgered out of all patience, he had delivered acurt lecture on banking.
"Look here, gentlemen," he had said, imposing silence from hishearth-rug and pressing his points with wagging forefinger, "do youknow what happens when you pay a thousand pounds into a bank? No, youdon't? Well, I'll tell you. They put a hundred pounds into the till,and they lend out four thousand pounds on the strength of the othernine hundred. If they lend more than that, or lend that withoutsecurity, they go beyond legitimate banking. Now you know as much as Ido. A banker's money is out on bills payable in two months or four,it's out on the security of shares and farms and shop-stock, it's lenton securities that cannot be realized in five minutes. But it's allthere, mark me, somewhere, in something, gentlemen; and I tell youcandidly that it's my opinion that if you would all go home and waitfor your money till you need it, you'd all get it in full, twentyshillings in the pound."
He meant no harm, but unfortunately the men who heard the lecture paidno heed to the latter part, but went out, impressed with the former,and spread it broad-cast. On which some cried, "That's banking, is it!Shameful, I call it!" while others said, "Well, I call it robbery! Theold tea-pot for me after this!" A few were for moving off at once andbreaking Ovington's windows, and going on to Dean's and serving themthe same. But they were restrained, things had not quite come to that;and it was an orderly if excited throng that once more waited on BrideHill and in the Market Place for the opening of the doors.
Not all who gathered there had anything to lose. Many were mereonlookers. But here and there were to be seen compressed lips, palefaces, anxious eyes. Here and there women gripped books in feverishfingers or squeezed handkerchiefs into tight balls; and now and againa man broke into bad words and muttered what he would do if theyrobbed him. There were country shopkeepers who had lodged the money tomeet the traveller's account, and trembled for its safety. There weregirls who saw their hard-earned portions at stake, and parsons whosehearts ached as they thought of the invalid wife or the boy'sschool-bill; and there were at least a score who knew that if the blowfell the bailiff, never far from the threshold, would be in the house.Before the eyes of not a few rose the spectres of the poorhouse and apauper funeral.
Standing in groups or dotted amid the crowd were biggermen--wool-brokers and cattle-dealers--men loud in bar-parlors andgreat among their fellows, whose rubicund faces showed flabby andmottled, and whose fleshy lips moved in endless calculations. How wasthis bill to be met, and who would renew that one? Too often the endof their calculations spelled ruin--if the bank failed. Ruin--and manywere they who depended on these big men: wage-earners, clerks,creditors, poor relations! One man walking up and down under thearcade of the Market House was the centre for many eyes. He was anauctioneer from a neighboring town, a man of wide dealings, who, itwas whispered, had lodged with Ovington's the proceeds of his lastgreat sale--a sum running into thousands and due every penny to thevendor.
His case and other hard cases were whispered by one to another, and,bruited about, they roused the passions even of those who were notinvolved. Yet when the bank at length opened on the stroke of ten anodd thing happened. A sigh, swelling to a murmur, rose from the densecrowd, but no one moved. The expected came as the unexpected, therewas a moment of suspense, of waiting. No one advanced. Then some oneraised a shout and there was a rush for the entrance; men struggledand women were thrust aside, smaller men were borne in on the arms oftheir fellows. A wail rose from the unsuccessful, but no man heededit, or waited for his neighbor, or looked aside to see who it was whostrove and thrust and struggled at his elbow. They pushed intumultuously, their country boots drumming on the boards. Theirentrance was like the inrush of an invading army.
The clerks, the cashier, Ovington himself, stood at the counterwaiting motionless to receive them, confronting them with what couragethey might. But the strain of the preceding day had told. The clerkscould not conceal their misgivings, and even Rodd failed to bearhimself with the chilling air which had yesterday abashed the modest.He shot vindictive glances across the counter, his will was still goodto wither, but the crowd was to-day made up of rougher material, wasmore brusque and less subservient. They cared nothing for him, and helooked, in spite of his efforts, weary and dispirited. There was nolonger any pretence that things were normal or that the bank was notface to face with a crisis. The gloves were off. They were no longerbanker and customers. They were enemies.
It was Ovington himself who this morning stood forward, and in a fewcold words informed his friends that they would all be paid,requesting them at the same time to be good enough to keep order andawait their turns, otherwise it would be impossible to proceed withthe business. He added a single sentence, in which he expressed hisregret that those who had known him so long should doubt, as he couldonly suppose that they did doubt, his ability to meet his engagements.
It was well done, with calmness and dignity, but as he ceased tospeak--his appearance had for the moment imposed silence--adisturbance broke out near the door. A man thrust himself in.Ovington, already in the act of turning, recognized the newcomer, anda keen observer might have noted that his face, grave before, turned ashade paler. But he met the blow. "Is that Mr. Yapp?" he asked.
It was the auctioneer from Iron Ferry. "Ay, Mr. Ovington, it is," hesaid, the perspiration on his face, "and you know my position."
Ovington nodded. Yapp was one of five depositors--big men--whoseclaims had been, for the last twenty-four hours, a nightmare to him.But he let nothing be seen, and "Kindly let Mr. Yapp pass," he said;"I will deal with him myself." Then, as one or two murmured andprotested, "Gentlemen," he said sternly, "you must let me conduct mybusiness in my own way, or I close my doors. Let Mr. Yapp pass, if youplease."
They let him through then, some grumbling, others patting him on theback--"Good luck to you, Jimmy!" cried one well-wisher. The counterwas raised, and resettling his clothes about him, the auctioneerfollowed Mr. Ovington into the parlor. The banker closed the door uponthem.
"How much is it, Mr. Yapp?" he asked.
The man's hand shook as he drew out the receipt. "Two thousand, sevenhundred and forty," he said. "I hope to God it's all right, sir?" Hisvoice shook. "It's not my money, and to lose it would three parts ruinme."
"You need not fear," the banker assured him. "The money is here." Butfor a moment he did not continue. He stood, his eyes on the man'sface, lost in thought. Then, "The money is here, and you can have it,Yapp," he said. "But I am going to be plain with you. You will do methe greatest possible favor if you will leave it for a few days. Thebank is solvent--I give you my honor it is. No one will lose a pennyby it in the end. But if this and other large sums are drawn to-day Imay have to close for a time, and the injury to me will be very great.If you wish to make a friend who may be able to return the favorten-fold----"
But Yapp shook his head. "I daren't do it!" he declared, the sweatspringing out anew on his face. "It isn't my money and I can't leaveit! I daren't do it, sir!"
Ovington saw that it was of no use to plead farther, and he changedhis ton
e. "Very good," he said, and he forced himself to speakequably. "I quite understand. You shall have the money." Sitting downat the table he wrote the amount on a slip, and struck the bell thatstood beside his desk. The younger clerk came in. He handed him theslip.
Yapp did not waver, but he remembered that good turns had been done tohim in that room, and he was troubled. "If it was my money," he saidawkwardly, "or if there was anything else I could do, Mr. Ovington?"
"You can," Ovington replied. He had got himself in hand, and he spokecheerfully.
"Well----"
"You can hold your tongue, Yapp," smiling.
"It's done, sir. I won't have a tongue except to say that the money'spaid. You may depend upon me."
"Thank you. I shall not forget it." The clerk brought in the money,and stayed until the sum was counted and checked and the receiptgiven. Then, "That's right, Mr. Yapp," the banker said, and sat backin his chair. "Show Mr. Yapp out, Williams."
Yapp followed the clerk. His appearance in the bank was greeted byhalf a dozen voices. "Ha' you got it?" they cried.
He was a man of his word, and he slapped his pocket briskly. "Everypenny!" he said, and something like a cheer went up. "I'd not haveworried, but it wasn't my money."
Ovington's appeal to him had been a forlorn hope, and much, now it hadfailed, did the banker regret it. But he had calculated that thattwenty-seven hundred pounds might just make the difference, and he hadbeen tempted. Left to himself he sat, turning it over, and wonderingif the auctioneer would be silent; and his face, now that the mask wasoff, was haggard and careworn. He had slept little the night before,and things were working out as he had feared that they would.
Presently he heard a disturbance in the bank. Something had occurredto break the orderly course of paying out. He rose and went out, afrown on his face. He was prepared for trouble, but he found to hisrelief that the interruption was caused by nothing worse than hisson's return.
Having given his word to Arthur to carry the money through the bank,Clement had sunk whatever scruples he felt, and had made up his mindto do it handsomely. He had driven up to the door with a flourish, hadtaken the gold from the chaise under the public eye, and now, with allthe parade he could, he was bringing it into the bank. His briskentrance and cheery presence, and the careless words he flung on thisside and that as he pushed through the crowd, seemed in a trice toclear the air and lift the depression. Not even Arthur could havecarried the thing through more easily or more flamboyantly. And thatwas saying much.
"Make way! Make way, if you please, gentlemen!" he cried, his faceruddy with the sharp, wintry air. "Let me in, please! Now, if you wantto be paid, you must let the money come through! Plenty of money!Plenty for all of you, gentlemen, and more where this comes from! Butyou must let me get by! Hallo, Rawlins, is that you? You're good atdead weights. Here, lift it! What do you make of it?" And he thrustthe bag he carried into a stout farmer's hands.
"Well, it be pretty near fifty pund, I'd say," Rawlins replied."Though, by gum, it don't look within a third of it, Mr. Clement."
Clement laughed. "Well done!" he said. "You're just about right. Andyou can say after this, Rawlins, that you've lifted fifty pound weightof gold! Now, make way, gentlemen, make way, if you please. There'smore to come in! Plenty more."
He bustled through with the bag, greeted his father gaily, and placedhis burden on the floor beside him. Then he went back for the otherbag. He made a second countryman weigh this, grinned at his face ofastonishment, then taking up the two bags he went through with hisfather to the parlor.
His arrival did good. The clerks perked up, smiled at one another,went to and fro more briskly. Rodd braced himself and, though he knewthe truth, began to put on airs, bandied words with a client, andcalled contemptuously for order. And the customers looked sheepish.Gold! Gold coming in like that in bags as if 'twere common stuff. Itmade them think twice. A few, balancing in their minds a smallpossible loss against the banker's certain favor, hesitated and hungback. Two or three even went out without cashing their notes andshrugged their shoulders in the street, declaring that the whole thingwas nonsense. They had been bamboozled. They had been hoaxed. The bankwas sound enough.
But behind the parlor door things wore a different aspect.
Ovington's Bank Page 39
