In ordinary times, news is slow to make its way to the ears of the
great. Protected from the vulgar by his deer park, looking out from the
stillness of his tall-windowed library on his plantations and his
ornamental water, Sir Charles Woosenham was removed by six miles of
fine champaign country from the common fret and fume of Aldersbury. He
no longer maintained, as his forefathers had maintained, a house in the
town, and in all likelihood he would not have heard the talk about the
bank, or caught the alarm in time, if one of his neighbors had not made
it his business to arouse him.
Acherley, baffled in his attempt at blackmail, and thirsting for
revenge, had bethought him of the Chairman of the Valleys Railroad. He
had been quick to see that he could use him, and perhaps he had even
fancied that it was his duty to use him. At any rate, one fine morning,
some days before this eventful Wednesday, he had mounted his old
hunter, Nimrod, and had cantered across country by gaps and gates from
Acherley to Woosenham Park. He had entered by a hunting wicket, and
leaping the ha-ha, he had presented himself to Sir Charles ten minutes
after the latter had left the breakfast table, and withdrawn himself
after his fashion of a morning, into a dignified seclusion.
Alas, two minutes of Acherley’s conversation proved enough to destroy
the baronet’s complacency for the day. Acherley blurted out his news,
neither sparing oaths nor mincing matters. “Ovington’s going!” he
declared. “He’s bust-up—smashed, man!” And striking the table with a
violence that made his host wince, “He’s bust-up, I tell you,” he
repeated, “and I think you ought to know it! There’s ten thousand of
the Company’s money in his hands, and if there’s nothing done, it will
be 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,” he
sneered.
“But—but what can we do?” the other asked, recovering from his
surprise. “If it is as bad as you say——”
“Bad? And do, man? Why, get the money out! Get it out before it is too
late—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 proposal
caused him. No proposal, indeed, could have been less to his taste. He
would have to make up his mind, he would have to act, he would have to
set himself against others, he would have to engage in a vulgar
struggle. A long vista of misery and discomfort opened before him. “I?
Oh, but—” and with the ingenuity of a weak man he snatched at the first
formal difficulty that occurred to him—“but I can’t draw it out! It
needs another signature besides mine.”
“The Secretary’s? Bourdillon’s? Of course it does! But you must get his
signature. D—n it, man, you must get it. If I were you I should go into
town this minute. I wouldn’t lose an hour!”
Sir Charles winced afresh at the idea of taking action so strong. He
had not only a great distaste for any violent step, but he had also the
feelings of a gentleman. To take on himself such a responsibility as
was now suggested was bad; but to confront Ovington, who had gained
considerable influence over him, and to tell the banker to his face
that he distrusted his stability—good heavens, was it possible that
such horrors could be asked of him? Flustered and dismayed, he went
back to his original standpoint. “But—but there may be nothing in
this,” he objected weakly. “Possibly nothing at all. Mere gossip, my
dear sir,” with dignity. “In that case we might be putting ourselves in
the wrong—very much in the wrong.”
Acherley did not take the trouble to hide his contempt. “Nothing in
it?” he replied, and he tossed off a second glass of the famous
Woosenham cherry-brandy which the butler, unbidden, had placed beside
him. “Nothing in it, man? You’ll find there’s the devil in it unless
you act! Enough in it to ease us of ten thousand pounds! If the bank
fails, and I’ll go bail it will, not a penny of that money will you see
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 to
sign, and the others are just tools of that man Ovington, and afraid to
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 and lost!”
Sir Charles quailed. This was worse and worse! Worse and worse! He
dropped the air of carelessness which he had affected to assume, and no
more flustered man than he looked out on the world that day over a
white lawn stock or wore a dark blue coat with gilt buttons, and drab
kerseymeres with Hessians. But, again, true to his instincts, he
grasped at a matter of form, hoping desperately that it might save him
from the precipice towards which his friend was so vigorously pushing
him. “But—my good man,” he argued, “I can’t draw out the money—the
whole of the capital of the concern, so far as it is subscribed—on my
own responsibility! Of course I can’t!” wiping the perspiration from
his brow. “Of course I can’t!” peevishly. “I must have the authority of
the Board first. We must call a meeting of the Board. That’s the proper
procedure.”
Acherley rose to his feet, openly contemptuous. “Oh, hang your
meeting!” he said. “And give a seven days’ notice, eh? If you are going
to stand on those P’s and Q’s I’ve said my say. The money’s lost
already! However, that’s not my business, and I’ve warned you. I’ve
warned you. You’ll not forget that, Woosenham? You’ll exonerate me, at
any 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 at
his too violent associate, who had brought into the calm of his life so
rude a blast of the outer air. “I can’t override all the formalities! I
can’t, indeed, even if it is as serious as you say it is—and I can
hardly believe that—with such a man as Ovington at the helm!”
“You’ll soon see how serious it is!” the other retorted. And satisfied
that he had laid the train, he shrugged his shoulders, tossed off a
third glass of the famous cherry-brandy, and took himself off without
much ceremony.
He left a flustered, nervous, unhappy man behind him. “Good G—d!” the
baronet muttered, as he rose and paced his library, all the peace and
pleasantness of his life shattered. “What’s to be done? And why—why in
the world did I ever put my hand to this matter!” One by one and
plainly all the difficulties of the position rose before him, the
awkwardness and the risk. He must open the thing to Bourdillon—in
itself a delicate matter—and obtain his signature. If he got that, he
doubted if he had even then power to draw the whole amount in this way,
and doubted, too, whether Ovington would surrender it, no meeting of
the Board having been held? And if he obtained the money, what was he
to do with it? Pay it into Dean’s? But if things were as bad as
Acherley said, was even Dean’s safe? For, of a certainty, if he removed
the money to Dean’s and it were lost, he would be responsible for 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 was not
his custom to drink of a morning, but his perturbation was so great
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 or
some difficulty arise to harass him. He was no man of business. In all
matters connected with the Company he had leant on Ovington, and
deprived of his stay, he wavered, turning like a weathercock in the
wind, making no progress.
For two days, though terribly uneasy in his mind, he halted between two
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 to
Bourdillon asking him to come out and see him—he thought that he could
broach the matter more easily on his own ground. But two days elapsed,
during which he received no answer, and in the meantime the warnings
that reached him grew louder and more disquieting. His valet let drop a
discreet word while shaving him. A neighbor hoped that he had nothing
in Ovington’s—things were in a bad way, he heard. His butler asked
leave to go to town to cash a note. Gradually he was wrought up to such
a pitch of uneasiness that he could not sleep for thinking of the ten
thousand pounds, and the things that would be said of 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 mind to take advice,
and he could think of no one on whose wisdom he could depend more
surely than on the old Squire’s at Garth; though, to be sure, to apply
to him was, considering his attitude towards the Railroad, to eat
humble pie.
Still, he made up his mind to that course, and at eleven he took my
lady’s landau and postillions, and started on his sixteen-mile drive to
Garth. He avoided the town, though it lay only a little out of his way,
but he saw enough of the unusual concourse on the road to add to his
alarm. Once, nervous and fidgety, he was on the point of giving the
order to turn the horses’ heads for Aldersbury—he would go direct to
the bank and see Ovington! But before he spoke he changed his mind
again, and half-past twelve saw him wheeling off the main road and
cantering, with some pomp and much cracking of whips, up the rough
ascent that led to Garth.
He was so far in luck that he found the Squire not only at home, but
standing before the door, a gaunt, stooping figure, leaning on his
stick, with Calamy at his elbow. “Who is it?” the old man asked, as he
caught the sound of galloping hoofs and the roll of the wheels. He
turned his sightless eyes in the direction of the approaching carriage.
“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 and bid
’em wait.”
Sir Charles alighted, and bidding the postillions draw off, greeted his
host. “I want your advice, Squire,” he said, putting his arm through
the old man’s, and, after a few ceremonial words he drew him a few
paces from the door. It was a clear, mild day, and the sun was shining
pleasantly. “I’m in a position of difficulty, Griffin,” he said.
“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 he
explained the situation.
The Squire listened with gloomy looks, and, beyond grunting from time
to time in a manner far from cheering, he did not interrupt his
visitor. “Of course, I ought not to have touched the matter,” the
baronet confessed, when he had finished his story. “I know what you
think 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’t
listen to me. Why, damme, Woosenham, if _we_ do these things, if we
once begin to go on ‘Change’ and sell and buy, where’ll you draw the
line? Where’ll you draw the line? How are you going to shut out the
tinkers and tailors and Brummagem and Manchester men when you make
yourselves no better than them! How? By Jove, you may as well give ’em
all votes at once, and in ten years’ time we shall have bagmen on the
Bench and Jews in the House! Aldshire—we’ve kept up the fence pretty
well in Aldshire, and kept our hands pretty clean, too, and it’s been
my pride and my father’s to belong to this County. We’re pure blood
here. We’ve kept ourselves to ourselves, begad! But once begin this
kind of thing——”
“I know, Griffin, I know,” Woosenham admitted meekly. “You were right
and I was wrong, Squire. But the thing is done, and what am I to do
now? 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 growing
restive under the other’s scolding, and he plucked up spirit. “Granted.
But, after all, your nephew’s in the concern, Griffin. He’s in it, too,
you know, and——”
He stopped, shocked by the effect of his words. For the old man had
withdrawn his arm and had stepped back, trembling in all his limbs.
“Not with my good will!” he cried, and he struck his stick with
violence on the ground. “Never! never!” he repeated, passionately. “But
you are right,” bitterly, “you are right, Woosenham. The taint is in
the air, the taint of the City and the ’Change, and we cannot escape it
even here—even here in this house! In the concern? Ay, he is! And I
tell you I wish to heaven that he had been in his grave first!”
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. After all,
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 I
better do? I know I am safe in your hands.”
The Squire sighed, but the other’s confidence was soothing, and with
the sigh he put off his own trouble. He reflected, his face turned to
the ground at his feet. “Do you think him honest?” he asked, after a
pause.
“Who? Ovington?”
“Ay,” gloomily. “Ovington? The banker there.”
“Well, I do think he is. Yes, I do think so. I’ve no reason to think
otherwise.”
“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 his
adviser with growing respect. “Well, I take it he is—now you mention
it, Griffin,” he said.
“Then”—this, it was plain, was the verdict, and the other listened with
all his ears—“if he is honest, he’ll not have mixed the money with his
own. He’ll not have put it to an ordinary account, but to a Trust
account—so that it will remain the property of the Company, and not 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 last spit of
honesty from such as him. It’s not what I’ve been brought up to expect.
But,” with a return of his former bitterness, “we may be changing
places with ’em even in that! God knows! And I do know something that
gives me to believe that he may behave as he should.”
“You do?” Sir Charles exclaimed, his spirits rising. “You do think so?”
“Well, I do,” reluctantly. “I’ll speak as I know. But if I were you I
should go to him now and tell him, as one man to another, that that’s
what you expect; and if he hangs back, tell him plain that if that
money’s not put aside he’ll have to answer to the law for it. Whether
that will frighten him or not,” the Squire concluded, “I’m not lawyer
enough 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—it will
save time, and my people shall fetch me out in an hour or so.”
Sir Charles assented with gratitude, thankful for his support; and
Calamy was summoned. Two minutes later they got away from the door in a
splutter of flying gravel and dead beech leaves. They clattered down
the stony avenue, over the bridge, and into the high road.
Probably of all those—and they were many—who travelled that day with
their faces set towards the bank, they were the last to start. If
Tuesday 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 something
amiss, of something that threatened the little hoard of each—the
slowly-garnered deposit or the hardly-won note—had journeyed by this
time far and wide. It had reached alike the remote flannel-mill lapped
in the folds of the border-hills, and the secluded hamlet buried amid
orchards, and traceable on the landscape only by the grey tower of its
church. On foot and on horse-back, riding and tying, in gigs and
ass-carts, in market vans and carriers’ carts, the countryside came
in—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 had begun
to echo the sound of their marching. They came by the East Bridge,
laboring up the steep, winding Cop; by the West Bridge and under the
gabled fronts of Maerdol, along the river bank, before the house of the
old sea-dog whose name was a household word, and whose portrait hung
behind the mayor’s chair, and so up the Foregate—from every quarter
they came. Before ten the streets were teeming with country-folk, whose
fears were not allayed by the news that all through the previous day
the townsfolk had been drawing their money. Sullen tradesmen, victims
of the general depression, eyed the march from their shop doors, and
some, fearing trouble, put up half their shutters. More took a
malicious amusement in telling the rustics that they were too late, and
that the bank would not open.
The alarm was heightened by a chance word which had fallen from
Frederick Welsh. The lawyer’s last thought had been to do harm, for his
interest in common with all substantial men lay the other way. But that
morning, before he had dressed, or so much as shaved, his office and
even his dining-room had been invaded. Scared clients had overwhelmed
him with questions—some that he could answer and more that he could
not. He could tell them the law as to their securities, whether they
were lodged for safety, or pawned for loans, or mortgaged on general
account. But he could not tell them whether Ovington was solvent, or
whether the bank would open, or whether Dean’s was affected; and it was
for answers to these questions that they clamored. In the end, badgered
out of all patience, he had delivered a curt lecture on banking.
“Look here, gentlemen,” he had said, imposing silence from his
hearth-rug and pressing his points with wagging forefinger, “do you
know what happens when you pay a thousand pounds into a bank? No, you
don’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 other
nine hundred. If they lend more than that, or lend that without
security, they go beyond legitimate banking. Now you know as much as I
do. 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 lent
on securities that cannot be realized in five minutes. But it’s all
there, mark me, somewhere, in something, gentlemen; and I tell you
candidly that it’s my opinion that if you would all go home and wait
for your money till you need it, you’d all get it in full, twenty
shillings in the pound.”
He meant no harm, but unfortunately the men who heard the lecture paid
no 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! The
old tea-pot for me after this!” A few were for moving off at once and
breaking Ovington’s windows, and going on to Dean’s and serving them
the 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 Bride
Hill and in the Market Place for the opening of the doors.
Not all who gathered there had anything to lose. Many were mere
onlookers. But here and there were to be seen compressed lips, pale
faces, anxious eyes. Here and there women gripped books in feverish
fingers or squeezed handkerchiefs into tight balls; and now and again a
man broke into bad words and muttered what he would do if they robbed
him. There were country shopkeepers who had lodged the money to meet
the traveller’s account, and trembled for its safety. There were girls
who saw their hard-earned portions at stake, and parsons whose hearts
ached as they thought of the invalid wife or the boy’s school-bill; and
there were at least a score who knew that if the blow fell 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 a pauper funeral.
Standing in groups or dotted amid the crowd were bigger
men—wool-brokers and cattle-dealers—men loud in bar-parlors and great
among their fellows, whose rubicund faces showed flabby and mottled,
and whose fleshy lips moved in endless calculations. How was this bill
to be met, and who would renew that one? Too often the end of their
calculations spelled ruin—if the bank failed. Ruin—and many were they
who depended on these big men: wage-earners, clerks, creditors, poor
relations! One man walking up and down under the arcade of the Market
House was the centre for many eyes. He was an auctioneer from a
neighboring town, a man of wide dealings, who, it was whispered, had
lodged with Ovington’s the proceeds of his last great sale—a sum
running into thousands and due every penny to the vendor.
His case and other hard cases were whispered by one to another, and,
bruited about, they roused the passions even of those who were not
involved. Yet when the bank at length opened on the stroke of ten an
odd thing happened. A sigh, swelling to a murmur, rose from the dense
crowd, but no one moved. The expected came as the unexpected, there was
a moment of suspense, of waiting. No one advanced. Then some one raised
a shout and there was a rush for the entrance; men struggled and women
were thrust aside, smaller men were borne in on the arms of their
fellows. A wail rose from the unsuccessful, but no man heeded it, or
waited for his neighbor, or looked aside to see who it was who strove
and thrust and struggled at his elbow. They pushed in tumultuously,
their country boots drumming on the boards. Their entrance was like the
inrush of an invading army.
The clerks, the cashier, Ovington himself, stood at the counter waiting
motionless to receive them, confronting them with what courage they
might. But the strain of the preceding day had told. The clerks could
not conceal their misgivings, and even Rodd failed to bear himself with
the chilling air which had yesterday abashed the modest. He shot
vindictive glances across the counter, his will was still good to
wither, but the crowd was to-day made up of rougher material, was more
brusque and less subservient. They cared nothing for him, and he
looked, in spite of his efforts, weary and dispirited. There was no
longer any pretence that things were normal or that the bank was not
face to face with a crisis. The gloves were off. They were no longer
banker and customers. They were enemies.
It was Ovington himself who this morning stood forward, and in a few
cold words informed his friends that they would all be paid, requesting
them at the same time to be good enough to keep order and await their
turns, otherwise it would be impossible to proceed with the business.
He added a single sentence, in which he expressed his regret that those
who had known him so long should doubt, as he could only suppose that
they did doubt, his ability to meet his engagements.
It was well done, with calmness and dignity, but as he ceased to
speak—his appearance had for the moment imposed silence—a disturbance
broke out near the door. A man thrust himself in. Ovington, already in
the act of turning, recognized the newcomer, and a keen observer might
have noted that his face, grave before, turned a shade paler. But he
met the blow. “Is that Mr. Yapp?” he asked.
It was the auctioneer from Iron Ferry. “Ay, Mr. Ovington, it is,” he
said, the perspiration on his face, “and you know my position.”
Ovington nodded. Yapp was one of five depositors—big men—whose claims
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 and protested,
“Gentlemen,” he said sternly, “you must let me conduct my business in
my own way, or I close my doors. Let Mr. Yapp pass, if you please.”
They let him through then, some grumbling, others patting him on the
back—“Good luck to you, Jimmy!” cried one well-wisher. The counter was
raised, and resettling his clothes about him, the auctioneer followed
Mr. Ovington into the parlor. The banker closed the door upon them.
“How much is it, Mr. Yapp?” he asked.
The man’s hand shook as he drew out the receipt. “Two thousand, seven
hundred and forty,” he said. “I hope to God it’s all right, sir?” His
voice shook. “It’s not my money, and to lose it would three parts ruin
me.”
“You need not fear,” the banker assured him. “The money is here.” But
for a moment he did not continue. He stood, his eyes on the man’s face,
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 me the
greatest possible favor if you will leave it for a few days. The bank
is solvent—I give you my honor it is. No one will lose a penny by it in
the end. But if this and other large sums are drawn to-day I may 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 favor ten-fold——”
But Yapp shook his head. “I daren’t do it!” he declared, the sweat
springing out anew on his face. “It isn’t my money and I can’t leave
it! I daren’t do it, sir!”
Ovington saw that it was of no use to plead farther, and he changed his
tone. “Very good,” he said, and he forced himself to speak equably. “I
quite understand. You shall have the money.” Sitting down at the table
he wrote the amount on a slip, and struck the bell that stood beside
his desk. The younger clerk came in. He handed him the slip.
Yapp did not waver, but he remembered that good turns had been done to
him in that room, and he was troubled. “If it was my money,” he said
awkwardly, “or if there was anything else I could do, Mr. Ovington?”
“You can,” Ovington replied. He had got himself in hand, and he spoke
cheerfully.
“Well——”
“You can hold your tongue, Yapp,” smiling.
“It’s done, sir. I won’t have a tongue except to say that the money’s
paid. 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 receipt given.
Then, “That’s right, Mr. Yapp,” the banker said, and sat back in his
chair. “Show Mr. Yapp out, Williams.”
Yapp followed the clerk. His appearance in the bank was greeted by half
a dozen voices. “Ha’ you got it?” they cried.
He was a man of his word, and he slapped his pocket briskly. “Every
penny!” he said, and something like a cheer went up. “I’d not have
worried, but it wasn’t my money.”
Ovington’s appeal to him had been a forlorn hope, and much, now it had
failed, did the banker regret it. But he had calculated that that
twenty-seven hundred pounds might just make the difference, and he had
been tempted. Left to himself he sat, turning it over, and wondering if
the auctioneer would be silent; and his face, now that the mask was
off, 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 occurred to
break the orderly course of paying out. He rose and went out, a frown
on his face. He was prepared for trouble, but he found to his relief
that the interruption was caused by nothing worse than his son’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 mind to
do it handsomely. He had driven up to the door with a flourish, had
taken the gold from the chaise under the public eye, and now, with all
the parade he could, he was bringing it into the bank. His brisk
entrance and cheery presence, and the careless words he flung on this
side and that as he pushed through the crowd, seemed in a trice to
clear the air and lift the depression. Not even Arthur could have
carried the thing through more easily or more flamboyantly. And that
was saying much.
“Make way! Make way, if you please, gentlemen!” he cried, his face
ruddy with the sharp, wintry air. “Let me in, please! Now, if you want
to be paid, you must let the money come through! Plenty of money!
Plenty for all of you, gentlemen, and more where this comes from! But
you must let me get by! Hallo, Rawlins, is that you? You’re good at
dead weights. Here, lift it! What do you make of it?” And he thrust the
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. And
you can say after this, Rawlins, that you’ve lifted fifty pound weight
of gold! Now, make way, gentlemen, make way, if you please. There’s
more to come in! Plenty more.”
He bustled through with the bag, greeted his father gaily, and placed
his burden on the floor beside him. Then he went back for the other
bag. He made a second countryman weigh this, grinned at his face of
astonishment, then taking up the two bags he went through with his
father 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 knew the
truth, began to put on airs, bandied words with a client, and called
contemptuously for order. And the customers looked sheepish. Gold! Gold
coming in like that in bags as if ’twere common stuff. It made them
think twice. A few, balancing in their minds a small possible loss
against the banker’s certain favor, hesitated and hung back. Two or
three even went out without cashing their notes and shrugged their
shoulders in the street, declaring that the whole thing was nonsense.
They had been bamboozled. They had been hoaxed. The bank was sound
enough.
But behind the parlor door things wore a different aspect.