HOW THEY BROKE THE RUN
There was nothing really surprising about it, though John had not
expected that the two dissenting trustees would reach that turning in
the lane so soon. On Sunday morning, when he had said to Mr. Cartwright
that of course he and Mr. Meredith would not be able to escape all the
scandal that would certainly attend the failure of the bank, it was no
new fear that he put in the old man’s mind. Mr. Cartwright and his echo
had discussed that possibility in awed whispers a dozen times since
John had been made president. When he went to Cartwright’s house Monday
evening, John referred frankly, though with a good deal of tact, to
that very point; but he said nothing of the obvious way they had out of
their difficulty. He left them to think of that for themselves. It was
inevitable that they should think of it, and that they should decide
that such a course, should it become necessary, would involve no
betrayal of old John Bagsbury’s trust. Thanks to the other stockholders
in the bank, and to the unspeakable Moffat, they had no real control
of the larger part of the estate; and if their nominal authority were
going to bring disgrace upon their eminently respectable old heads, why
should they not discard it?
When they heard that there was a run in progress at the bank, they set
out thither merely because they were frightened. They had no idea of
doing anything so radical as turning the estate over, then and there,
into the mad hands of John Bagsbury. With all their perturbation, they
would probably not have been able to make up their minds to such an act
until the danger was over, had it not been for the crowd in the street.
That crowd had frightened Pickering, had benumbed John, and it is not
wonderful that at sight of it Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Meredith should
feel the panic strike in to their very marrow. They were very old, they
wanted no occupation more exciting than playing golf and telling old
stories and sipping irreproachable sherry. But here was a mob, and here
were policemen, here was riot and disaster, and, worse yet, a certain
scandal. They fairly gasped with relief when they were safe in the
little room, and the door was shut. Even John Bagsbury’s office seemed
a haven after that tumultuous street.
So it was natural enough that when John Bagsbury said, divining the
rapidly forming purpose which underlay their querulous complaints and
remonstrances, “Well, gentlemen, shall I telephone for Mr. Moffat?”
that they should have assented, though their red faces grew redder as
they did it, and that after the third trustee arrived, badly out of
breath with hurry and with chuckling over the situation, the first
steps to make John master of his own property should have been taken as
promptly as possible.
It remained for Jack Dorlin, when months afterward he turned a
reminiscent and contemplative eye upon the episode, to discover the
curious perversity of it all. John’s first opportunity to get control
of the bank had arisen in the excessive precaution his father had taken
to prevent it, and now the same timorous conservatism of his trustees,
on which the old man had counted so much, was turned to panic, and the
move deliberately calculated by Sponley to ruin John served only to
make the temporary control permanent.
John heard from the clearing house and from Pickering almost
simultaneously. The news from the former was no worse than the Banker
had expected, and from the latter much better; for the closing bell had
rung, and Pickering was safe till to-morrow morning. But the tide of
battle was turned already. With the arrival of Cartwright and Meredith
at the bank, and John’s quick guess at their errand, his confidence had
come back. The morning with its confession of defeat was forgotten. He
was no longer angry; his mind was occupied by a confident determination
to win.
He left the telephone after receiving Pickering’s message and
approached a little group of his officers, who were discussing the
situation, and who apparently entertained serious misgiving as to what
the outcome would be.
“I don’t think you need to feel alarmed about it,” he said. “We’re
coming out all right. We’ll have that run broken now in short notice.”
“We don’t seem to be making much headway,” said Jackson. “That line’s
longer than ever and more scared. The people down there by the corner
think they aren’t going to get this money.”
“Thank God it’s getting somewhere near three o’clock,” said Peters.
“We ought to be able to last out to-day, it seems to me,” hazarded
Curtin.
“Yes, it’s to-morrow that scares me,” Peters answered.
“We shan’t close at three,” said John Bagsbury. “We’re going to keep
open till every depositor who’s waiting out there in line gets his
money. We’ll keep it up as long as they do, if that’s till midnight.”
“I don’t see how we can do that, Mr. Bagsbury,” Jackson remonstrated.
“I should think we ought to stop for breath when we have the chance.”
“I don’t want another day like this. We’ll be able to pay every man
who wants his money before we close to-night, and we’re going to do
it. I think you’d better put out a notice to that effect, Mr. Peters.
I’m going out to lunch. I’ll be at that little place on the corner, so
that if you want me, you can get at me. Please put that notice in a
conspicuous place, Mr. Peters.”
John was hardly out of the bank before Curtin had called up Sponley
and begun an account of the way matters had been going since noon; but
the Bear cut short his narrative.
“Don’t say anything more over the ’phone; it isn’t safe. Anyway, I want
to talk with you. You say Bagsbury’s gone out to lunch? Do you know
where? Well, you come right off, as quick as you can, to the Eagle
Café, in the Arcadia building. Yes, I’ll be there in one of the private
rooms.”
Sponley heard or guessed enough from what Curtin told him to make him
think that the bank was in no such desperate condition as he had hoped.
He had been winning all day; he was almost sure that he would be able
to finish Pickering within the first hour next morning, but he was
unwilling to take any chances. If John should so thoroughly break up
the run this afternoon that it would not be resumed to-morrow morning,
the Bull might recover his lost ground and compel him to do the work
all over again. It would be risky, riskier than it had been before, to
get people to talking once more and create another run on the bank. And
so he decided to play his last card.
It was an old notion of his which Curtin had recalled to his mind
just a week ago, when he said he had not been hired to crack safes. It
seemed to him then too theatrical to be worth considering seriously;
but as the days went by, and the fight grew hotter, and one plan after
another failed to dislodge John Bagsbury from his position supporting
Pickering, the idea came back to him and he asked himself, Why not, as
a last resort. Well, it was now or not at all. Curtin, he reflected,
would probably not relish the job, but that was not an important
consideration.
The assistant cashier, however, surprised his employer by entering into
the scheme with a good deal of gusto. Had Sponley known his man less
thoroughly, he would have suspected the genuineness of this enthusiasm,
and would have conceived the idea that Curtin meant to play him false.
But the Bear had no misgivings. Curtin might plan a dozen treacheries
in an hour, but when the moment of action came, he would obey orders.
Sponley cut short his guessing as to just what the effect of the trick
would be.
“You’d better get right back to the bank, and don’t telephone to me,
whatever happens. Don’t try to communicate with me in any way either
to-night or to-morrow morning. It isn’t safe. If I want to find out
anything, I’ll contrive to get word to you.”
Curtin nodded and left the room. Just outside the door he hesitated a
moment, then walked nervously over to the bar and ordered a drink of
whiskey. He watched the man pouring it into the glass, and did not see
who had come up beside him until Sponley laid his hand upon his arm.
“You don’t want that, do you? Don’t you think you’ve had enough this
afternoon?”
Curtin laughed weakly. “It won’t hurt me. I want something to brace me
up.”
“That won’t brace you up. You’re excited enough already.”
“There’s no harm in this one. I won’t take any more.”
The barkeeper had pushed the glass toward him, and he raised it toward
his lips.
“Put that down!”
The glass halted.
“This seems to be my business rather than yours.”
The glass moved upward again, but now it was trembling.
The next instant it was shivered on the tile floor, and both Curtin’s
wrists were fettered in Sponley’s hands.
“Damn you,” Curtin said.
“I told you not to,” said Sponley, quietly. “Now go back to the bank.”
He let go of Curtin’s wrists.
“Do you--do you think I’ll take your orders after an insult like that?”
“I think you will. You’ve found it paid pretty well before now. But
that was not an insult; it was business. You’ll get us both into
trouble if you’re drunk this afternoon. You’ll see that that’s so when
you’re cooled down.”
Sponley paid for the glass, and without another word to Curtin, or
even a look at him, left the café and entered his carriage, which was
waiting for him at the corner. It was three or four minutes later when
Curtin came out, but in that time he had not been able to force himself
to order another glass of whiskey.
At three o’clock John Bagsbury sent word to Jack Dorlin to come into
the private office. Jack found him standing back a couple of paces from
his window, looking down with what appeared to be a merely impersonal
or speculative interest upon the undiminished crowd in the street.
“Mr. Dorlin,” he said, “you’ve shown a disposition to help me out
of difficulties before,” Jack looked at him closely, but there was
not even the faint trace of a smile, “and I want you to come to my
assistance again. I want you to help me scatter that crowd in the
street.”
“By violence, Mr. Bagsbury, or by guile?”
Still John’s face was serious. “By guile,” he answered. “It would take
a squadron of cavalry to do it the other way. I’m going to try a bluff,
or rather I’ve thought of a bluff that I want you to try. I don’t like
that sort of thing, but nothing else will have any weight with those
people out there. If we could give them a mathematical demonstration
that their money was safe, they’d stay around to get it just the same.
They’re like small children; they want an object lesson.
“When I met Dawson at lunch I arranged to get one hundred thousand from
the Atlantic in currency. I want you to go and get it now and--here’s
where the bluff comes in--bring it back as impressively as possible.
That’s the whole trick; we don’t need the money, but we do need the
effect. I haven’t time to arrange the details, so I leave that in your
hands. You have a pretty healthy imagination, and you ought to be
able to get up something effective. You may find Dawson over at the
Atlantic. If you do, he’ll have some ideas on the subject; but the
whole business is in your hands. You get the idea, don’t you?”
“I think so. Is there any danger of overdoing it--of being too
spectacular?”
“No,” said John; “you can pile it on as thick as you like.”
“All right. I’ll work it up as well as I can. It’s getting pretty black
overhead; if I and the rain strike here at the same time, we ought to
do the trick.”
The rain set in before Jack was a block away from the bank. According
to the morning paper it was only a shower; but John Bagsbury noted
with pleasure that it had a downright, businesslike way about it, and
a promise of plenty of endurance. By itself it had no evident effect,
but it was doubtless preparing the mind of the crowd in the street for
the more enthusiastic reception of the object lesson that was soon to
arrive.
John stepped to the door of his office and called to Mr. Peters.
“I wish you’d have all the silver there is in the vaults brought out
and piled in the tellers’ cages,” he said thoughtfully, “and have the
men bring it out one bag at a time and carry it as though it was heavy.
It won’t be necessary to open any of the bags, but I think it will look
well.”
While John stood at the door watching to see that his order was being
carried out according to the spirit as well as the letter, his eyes
fell repeatedly on Curtin. The assistant cashier was moving uneasily
about, doing nothing in particular, and seeming to find that difficult
to do. He would halt before a window and gaze sullenly out at the rain,
and then hurry impatiently back to his desk. Once he walked the whole
length of the narrow passage between the cages and the vaults, with no
other apparent purpose than being in the way; for at the end of it he
turned around and walked back. As he passed the door of the private
office, John spoke to him.
“Mr. Curtin, there’s no need of your staying any longer.”
He turned a shade paler. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Nothing to get excited about,” said John, looking at him curiously. “I
thought from your manner that you were uneasy and anxious to get away,
and I said that nothing need detain you. Mr. Peters will see to locking
up the vaults.”
“I’d rather stay,” said Curtin, as steadily as he could. “I didn’t
understand you at first. I am uneasy--I want to see the thing
through--to see something stop this run--” John nodded brusquely and
turned away. He had no particular reason for thinking that Curtin was
lying, but the air of essential untruthfulness of the man made it
difficult to believe him, even in a matter of no moment. Everything he
did and the way he did it irritated John Bagsbury.
There was nothing else to do, so the Banker sat down at his desk to
await the arrival of the object lesson. Everything was ready. The rain
was holding well, and the stacks of angular canvas bags behind the
gratings seemed to be making an excellent impression on the file of
depositors who were within the doors. But still the line was unbroken.
All depended now on Jack Dorlin. It took him long enough, the Banker
thought impatiently.
But there! The object lesson was coming at last. John could see nothing
as yet, but the noise from the street told him. It was a very different
noise from any other that had come through the window. The crowd, that
big animal which had yelled a few hours back, was purring. The object
lesson was slow to appear, but when it did--
“Come in here, Jackson,” John called. “Come here and look.”
“By the jumping Julius Cæsar!” the cashier exclaimed, when he caught
sight of it. “He’s organized a street parade! I wonder why he didn’t
bring a brass band.”
There was Jack Dorlin in front, marching with a gravity befitting the
situation, bearing under his arm a bulky package secured by yards of
heavy cord and splendid with red sealing-wax. And in single file behind
him were nine other young men of assorted sizes, every one of them
carrying a similar burden. As convoy, two to the man, guarding both
flanks of the file with most impressive zeal, were twenty blue-coated
policemen. There was some sort of lettering on each of the ten packages
which the crowd seemed to be reading with great satisfaction.
Straight through the crowd and up the steps came the procession, never
once breaking its imposing formation till safe behind the rail in
the bank. Then John read what was printed on the packages, “Atlantic
National Bank, $50,000.” Taking Jack by the arm, he marched him into
his private office.
“You did that brown, Dorlin.”
“It was partly Mr. Dawson’s idea,” said Jack. “Those packages were
already sealed up. He painted the extra ciphers on them himself. I was
afraid it would be a little stiff, besides being not quite accurate,
but he said it would go down all right.”
“Then you’ve only got fifty thousand there in all?”
“Yes, you see this is only the direct attack. The rest is with the
flank movement,” said Jack; “it ought to be here by now. Oh, there it
is!”
Jack reached the window just as a big, red, iron-grated American
Express Company wagon pulled up before the bank and backed round to the
sidewalk. Then he saw a wave of excitement go over the crowd when two
men armed with Winchesters sprang down and ran to the rear end of the
wagon.
“Hurrah for the other million!” came a voice from somewhere, and a
crashing cheer from the crowd was the answer.
It had been raining before in a plodding, commonplace fashion, but now
the water began coming down in continuous streams instead of detached
drops, and the crowd huddled a little closer to watch the men who
splashed back and forth across the sidewalk carrying lumpy canvas bags
into the bank.
“Ten thousand of it is in gold,” said Jack, “the rest is just about a
ton of silver dollars. I thought you might want to open some of the
bags.”
They did open some of the bags, and poured streams of shining
double-eagles over the counters.
“You’d better pay in gold for a while,” John ordered the paying
tellers. Then he went around and spoke to the men behind the receivers’
windows.
The next few people to reach the windows had very small amounts of
money in the bank, and they departed, clinking their two or three
pieces of yellow metal with great satisfaction. But presently there
came a man whose account was more than a thousand dollars. Fifty
double-eagles are not only heavy, their bulk, compared with the
capacity of the average pocket, is considerable. The man gathered them
up in a helpless sort of a way and tried with no great success to stow
them inconspicuously about his person, while the crowd of depositors
waiting their turn made derisive comments upon his plight. Finally,
with the air of a man who has just made a momentous decision, he walked
to the receiving teller’s window.
“I believe I’ll put it back after all,” he said, “I guess the bank’s
safe enough.”
“You can’t put it back to-night,” the teller answered politely. “It’s
too late, after three o’clock. The bank’s closed.” He had to say it
twice before the man understood, and to save future explanations,
perhaps, he said it loudly enough for all around to hear.
“But what am I going to do?” the man asked.
“I don’t know,” said the teller. “Get yourself arrested,” called
somebody in the crowd.
For by that time it was a crowd, the line had melted away. They had not
waited all those hours for their money with any intention of putting it
back in the bank that night; but to discover that they could not put it
back, that the bank could not be induced to take it back that night,
gave the matter a different color. A few of the more independent ones
stepped boldly out of the line; then, after an irresolute half minute
of staring at the great piles of coin and paper, the others followed,
and men and women streamed sheepishly out through the wide open doors
into the already empty street.
“I’m going, too,” said John Bagsbury. “The show’s over. I’ve had
enough.”
Curtin looked as though he had had enough, too; but he waited till all
the money was safely put away, and he could lock up the vaults.