The first two years of the bank's history were solidly successful, and
"Jim" and "Nellie" were the head and front of all good works, and the
provoking cause of most of the fun. No one seemed more care-free.
"We consider ourselves just as young as anybody," Mrs. Sanford would say,
when joked about going out with the young people so much; but sometimes
at home, after the children were asleep, she sighed a little.
"Jim, I wish you was in some kind of a business so I could help. I don't
have enough to do. I s'pose I could mop an' dust, an' dust an' mop; but
it seems sinful to waste time that way. Can't I do anything, Jim?"
"Why, no. If you 'tend to the children and keep house, that's all
anybody asks of you."
She was silent, but not convinced. She had a desire to do something
outside the walls of her house--a desire transmitted to her from her
father, for a woman inherits these things.
In the spring of the second year a number of the depositors drew out
money to invest in Duluth and Superior lots, and the whole town was
excited over the matter.
The summer passed, Link and Sanford spending their time in the bank--that
is, when not out swimming or fishing with the boys. But July and August
were terribly hot and dry, and oats and corn were only half-crop, and the
farmers were grumbling. Some of them were forced to draw on the bank
instead of depositing.
McPhail came in, one day in November, to draw a thousand dollars to pay
for a house and lot he had recently bought.
Sanford was alone. He whistled. "Phew! You're comin' at me hard. Come in
to-morrow. Link's gone down to the city to get some money."
"All right," said McPhail; "any time."
"Goin' t' snow?"
"Looks like it. I'll haf to load a lot o' ca'tridges ready f'r biz."
About an hour later old lady Bingham burst upon the banker, wild and
breathless. "I want my money," she announced.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Bingham. Pleasant--"
"I want my money. Where's Lincoln?"
She had read that morning of two bank failures--one in Nova Scotia and
one in Massachusetts--and they seemed providential warnings to her.
Lincoln's absence confirmed them.
"He's gone to St. Paul--won't be back till the five-o'clock train. Do you
need some money this morning? How much?"
"All of it, sir. Every cent."
Sanford saw something was out of gear. He tried to explain. "I've sent
your son to St. Paul after some money--"
"Where's my money? What have you done with that?" In her excitement she
thought of her money just as she hand handed it in--silver and little
rolls and wads of bills.
"If you'll let me explain--"
"I don't want you to explain nawthin'. Jest hand me out my money."
Two or three loafers, seeing her gesticulate, stopped on the walk outside
and looked in at the door. Sanford was annoyed, but he remained calm and
persuasive. He saw that something had caused a panic in the good, simple
old woman. He wished for Lincoln as one wishes for a policeman sometimes.
"Now, Mrs. Bingham, if you'll only wait till Lincoln--"
"I don't want 'o wait. I want my money, right now."
"Will fifty dollars do?"
"No, sir; I want it all--every cent of it--jest as it was."
"But I can't do that. Your money is gone--"
"Gone? Where is it gone? What have you done with it? You thief--"
"'Sh!" He tried to quiet her. "I mean I can't give you your money--"
"Why can't you?" she stormed, trotting nervously on her feet as she stood
there.
"Because--if you'd let me explain--we don't keep the money just as it
comes to us. We pay it out, and take in other--"
Mrs. Bingham was getting more and more bewildered. She now had only one
clear idea--she couldn't get her money. Her voice grew tearful like an
angry child's.
"I want my money--I knew you'd steal it--that I worked for. Give me my
money."
Sanford hastily handed her some money. "Here's fifty dollars. You can
have the rest when--"
The old lady clutched the money, and literally ran out of the door, and
went off up the sidewalk, talking incoherently. To every one she met she
told her story; but the men smiled and passed on. They had heard her
predictions of calamity before.
But Mrs. McIlvaine was made a trifle uneasy by it. "He wouldn't give you
y'r money? Or did he say he couldn't?" she inquired, in her moderate way.
"He couldn't, an' he wouldn't!" she said. "If you've got any money there,
you'd better get it out quick. It ain't safe a minute. When Lincoln comes
home I'm goin' to see if I can't--"
"Well, I was calc'latin' to go to Lumberville this week, anyway, to buy a
carpet and a chamber set. I guess I might 's well get the money to-day."
When she came in and demanded the money, Sanford was scared. Were these
two old women the beginning of the deluge? Would McPhail insist on being
paid also? There was just one hundred dollars left in the bank, together
with a little silver. With rare strategy he smiled.
"Certainly, Mrs. McIlvaine. How much will you need?"
She had intended to demand the whole of her deposit--one hundred and
seventeen dollars--but his readiness mollified her a little. "I did 'low
I'd take the hull, but I guess seventy-five dollars 'll do."
He paid the money briskly out over the little glass shelf. "How is your
children, Mrs. McIlvaine?"
"Purty well, thanky," replied Mrs. McIlvaine, laboriously counting the
bills.
"Is it all right?"
"I guess so," she replied, dubiously. "I'll count it after I get home."
She went up the street with the feeling that the bank was all right, and
she stepped in and told Mrs. Bingham that she had no trouble in getting
her money.
After she had gone Sanford sat down and wrote a telegram which he sent to
St. Paul. This telegram, according to the duplicate at the station, read
in this puzzling way:
E. O., Exchange Block, No. 96. All out of paper. Send five hundred
note-heads and envelopes to match. Business brisk. Press of
correspondence just now. Get them out quick. Wire.
Sanford.
Two or three others came in after a little money, but he put them off
easily. "Just been cashing some paper, and took all the ready cash I can
spare. Can't you wait till to-morrow? Link's gone down to St. Paul to
collect on some paper. Be back on the five-o'clock. Nine o'clock, sure."
An old Norwegian woman came in to deposit ten dollars, and he counted it
in briskly, and put the amount down on her little book for her. Barney
Mace came in to deposit a hundred dollars, the proceeds of a horse sale,
and this helped him through the day. Those who wanted small sums he paid.
"Glad this ain't a big demand. Rather close on cash to-day," he said,
smiling, as Lincoln's wife's sister came in.
She laughed, "I guess it won't bu'st yeh. If I thought it would, I'd
leave it in."
"Bu'sted!" he said, when Vance wanted him to cash a draft. "Can't do it.
Sorry, Van. Do it in the morning all right. Can you wait?"
"Oh, I guess so. Haf to, won't I?"
"Curious," said Sanford, in a confidential way. "I don't know that I ever
saw things get in just such shape. Paper enough--but exchange, ye know,
and readjustment of accounts."
"I don't know much about banking, myself," said Vance, good-naturedly;
"but I s'pose it's a good 'eal same as with a man. Git short o' cash,
first they know--'ain't got a cent to spare."
"That's the idea exactly. Credit all right, plenty o' property, but--"
and he smiled and went at his books. The smile died out of his eyes as
Vance went out, and he pulled a little morocco book from his pocket and
began studying the beautiful columns of figures with which it seemed to
be filled. Those he compared with the books with great care, thrusting
the book out of sight when any one entered.
He closed the bank as usual at five. Lincoln had not come--couldn't come
now till the nine-o'clock accommodation. For an hour after the shades
were drawn he sat there in the semi-darkness, silently pondering on his
situation. This attitude and deep quiet were unusual to him. He heard the
feet of friends and neighbors passing the door as he sat there by the
smouldering coal-fire, in the growing darkness. There was something
impressive in his attitude.
He started up at last, and tried to see what the hour was by turning the
face of his watch to the dull glow from the cannon-stove's open door.
"Supper-time," he said, and threw the whole matter off, as if he had
decided it or had put off the decision till another time.
As he went by the post-office Vance said to McIlvaine in a smiling way,
as if it were a good joke on Sanford:
"Little short o' cash down at the bank."
"He's a good fellow," McIlvaine said.
"So's his wife," added Vance, with a chuckle.