Jamie could not go to bed that night, but sat on deck watching the
stars. The next day he went through his avocations in the bank like
one in a dream. And in the night ensuing that dream became a vision;
and he saw Mercedes alone in a distant city, without money or friends,
her soft eyes looking wistfully at him in wonder that he did not come.
The next morning Jamie went to old Mr. Bowdoin's office, at an hour
when he knew he should find him alone. For the old gentleman called
early at the little counting-room, as in the days when he might hope
to find some ship of his own, fresh from the Orient, warping into the
dock. Jamie's lips were dry, and his voice came huskily. He gave up
the effort to speak of St. Clair's death, but asked briefly that Mr.
Bowdoin would get him three months' leave.
"Three months!" cried the old man. "Why, Jamie, you've not taken a
vacation for fifteen years!"
"That's why I make bold to ask it, sir," said Jamie humbly.
"Take six months, man, six months,--not a week less! And your salary
shall be paid in advance"--Mr. Bowdoin noted a sudden kindling in
Jamie's eye that gave him his cue. "Two quarters! you have well
deserved it. And now that the bank is to change its charter, there'll
be a lot of fuss and worry; it'll be a good time to go away."
"Change its charter?"
"Ay, Jamie; we've got to give up being a state bank, and go in under
the new national law to issue shinplasters to pay for beating the
rebels! But come with me to the bank,--the board are meeting now for
discounts," and the old gentleman grabbed his hat, and dragged Jamie
out of the counting-room.
I doubt if ever the old clerk was rushed so rapidly up the street.
And coming into the bank, Mr. Bowdoin shoved him into an anteroom.
"Wait you there!" said he, and plunged into the board-room.
There had been a light spring snow that night, and Jamie had not had
time to wipe his boots. He cleaned them now, and then went back and
sat upon a sofa near the sacred precincts of the directors' room.
Suddenly he felt a closing of the heart; he wondered if he were going
to be taken into custody--after so many years--and now, just now, when
he must go to rescue Mercedes. Then he remembered that he had been
brought there by Mr. Bowdoin, and Jamie knew better than to think
this.
In a minute more the door opened, and that gentleman came out. Behind
him peered the faces of the directors; in his hand was a crisp new
bank-note.
"McMurtagh," said Mr. Bowdoin, "the directors have voted to give you a
six months' vacation; and as some further slight recognition of your
twenty years of service, this," and he thrust a thousand-dollar note
into his hand.
Jamie's labors were light that day. To begin with, every clerk and
teller and errand-boy had to shake him by the hand and hear all about
it. And it was not for the money's sake. Old Mr. Bowdoin had been
shrewd enough to guess what only thing could make the clerk want so
much liberty; and the news had leaked down to the others,--"that Jamie
was going for his foreign mail."
"I hear you are going away," said one. "To Europe?" said another.
"Blockade-running!" suggested a third. "For cotton."
"I--I am going to the tropics," stammered Jamie. He had but a clouded
notion how far south New Orleans might be.
"I told you so," laughed the teller.
"Bring us all a bale or two."
Jamie laughed; to the amazement of the bank, Jamie laughed.
When the cashier went to lunch, Jamie stole a chance to get into the
vault alone. And there, out of every pocket, with trembling fingers,
he pulled a little roll of Spanish gold. Then the delight of sorting
and arranging them in the old chest! He had one side for pistoles, and
this now was full; and even the doubloon side showed less than the
empty space of one roll, across the little chest, needed to fill the
count, after he had put the new coins in. The old clerk sat in a sort
of ecstasy; reminding himself still that what he gazed at was not the
greatest joy he had that day; when all these sordid things were over,
he was to start, on the morrow, for Mercedes.
He heard the voice of the cashier returning, and went out.
"Well, McMurtagh," said he, "you're lucky to escape this miserable
reorganization. July 1st we start as a national bank, you know."
"Yes," said Jamie absently.
"Every stick and stone in this old place has got to be counted over
again, the first of the month, by the examiners of Uncle Sam, and
every book verified. By the way," the cashier ended carelessly, as
witless messengers of fate alone can say such things, "you'd better
leave me the key of that old chest we carry in special account for the
Bowdoins. They'll want to look at everything, you know. The
examination may come next year, or it may come any time."