The afternoon was broiling. The sun came in, scarcely checked by the
yellow shades; fell on and soaked into the smooth, varnished surfaces of
the desks and tables, and turned the iron of the big vault into a sort
of storage battery of heat. Even the electric fan in the president's
office, which we had placed on top of the telephone closet (as near us
as its length of wire would allow), gave but little relief.
Both of us were working in our shirt-sleeves, but the sweat stood on our
brows, and my fingers were so sticky I could scarcely handle my bills.
It was too hot for conversation even; so the only sounds in the room
were the snipping of my shears, the crisp fluttering of the fresh, new
bills as they fell one by one on the table; and the snapping of rubber
bands as the cashier went over bundle after bundle of the bank paper,
on the security of which all our positions depended.
As I said, it was too hot for talk; and besides, I had plenty to engross
me in my own thoughts—which were about John, of course.
I began by thinking how profitable it would be to the bank if John might
only have a baby every day; and then, as this was out of the question,
fell to calculating how long this one that had just arrived would
continue to work the same beneficial influence on her father's actions.
Presently, however, my ideas became more serious; and at last so serious
that they brought about a reaction in the shape of a suspicion that
perhaps I had been making too much out of the incident, after all. So
I determined to get Mr. Young's opinion on the subject, if I could; and
was just framing my first interrogatory, when the telephone rang.
"Claflin National?" said the voice.
"Yes."
"The cashier in? Young, isn't it?"
"Yes. Yes, he's in."
"See him a moment?"
"Yes."
I was certain that the voice did not belong to any of the bank employees
in town; and yet it was familiar.
"Someone to see you, sir," I said, trying all the while to place the
voice; and then, the resemblance suddenly dawning on me,
"Is Spencer John's family physician?"
"Yes. Why?" and the cashier started.
"I think it's he at the 'phone."
The cashier was in the telephone closet almost five minutes. When he
came out he was white, and it was plain he had been undergoing very
strong emotions, though the worst of them was evidently passed.
He began hurriedly gathering his notes together.
"Put up your work, Jim," he said. "We must lock up as soon as possible.
John's baby's dead."
The news hardly took me by surprise. I foresaw from the first that it
was something pretty bad. So I simply commenced doing as I was told.
"He wants me to tell him," began the cashier after a moment.
"The doctor?"
"Yes, and," looking at the clock, "he'll be back any minute now, and,
perhaps, Jim——"
"I'd best be going?"
"Yes. I'll fix up, and—My God, it's sad!—and be down early to-morrow,
Jim."
"John won't be here, I suppose."
"I hope not; but there's no telling. At any rate he
won't—hustle—to-morrow as—he did to-day. I was thinking of that."
So, as I left the bank, I found that the question I was going to put
the cashier as the telephone rang, had been answered, after all.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: A Stork's Nest, Dordrecht, Holland—12-inch Lens.]
[Illustration: Stork's Nest—Telephoto Lens.]