“So that’s the feller, is it?” said Bill. “I guess he won’t stay ’round here long. I guess you’ll find he’s a little too toney fer these parts, an’ in pertic’ler fer Dave Harum. Dave’ll make him feel ’bout as comf’table as a rooster in a pond. Lord,” he exclaimed, slapping his leg with a guffaw, “ ’d you notice Ame’s face when he said he didn’t want much fer supper, only beefsteak, an’ eggs, an’ tea, an’ coffee, an’ a few little things like that? I thought I’d split.”
“Yes,” said Dick, laughing, “I guess the’ ain’t nothin’ the matter with Ame’s heart, or he’d ’a’ fell down dead.—Hullo, Ame!” he said when the gentleman in question came back after ministering to his guest, “got the Prince o’ Wales fixed up all right? Did ye cut that pickled el’phant that come last week?”
“Huh!” grunted Amos, whose sensibilities had been wounded by the events of the evening, “I didn’t cut no el’phant ner no cow, ner rob no hen roost neither, but I guess he won’t starve ’fore mornin’,” and with that he proceeded to fill up the stove and shut the dampers.
“That means ‘git,’ I reckon,” remarked Bill as he watched the operation.
“Wa’al,” said Mr. Elright, “if you fellers think you’ve spent enough time droolin’ ’round here swapping lies, I think I’ll go to bed,” which inhospitable and injurious remark was by no means taken in bad part, for Dick said, with a laugh:
“Well, Ame, if you’ll let me run my face for ’em, Bill ’n I’ll take a little somethin’ for the good o’ the house before we shed the partin’ tear.” This proposition was not declined by Mr. Elright, but he felt bound on business principles not to yield with too great a show of readiness.
“Wa’al, I don’t mind for this once,” he said, going behind the bar and setting out a bottle and glasses, “but I’ve gen’ally noticed that it’s a damn sight easier to git somethin’ into you fellers ’n ’tis to git anythin’ out of ye.”
XIII
The next morning at nine o’clock John presented himself at Mr. Harum’s banking office, which occupied the first floor of a brick building some twenty or twenty-five feet in width. Besides the entrance to the bank, there was a door at the south corner opening upon a stairway leading to a suite of two rooms on the second floor.
The banking office consisted of two rooms—one in front, containing the desks and counters, and what may be designated as the “parlor” (as used to be the case in the provincial towns) in the rear, in which were Mr. Harum’s private desk, a safe of medium size, the necessary assortment of chairs, and a lounge. There was also a large Franklin stove.
The parlor was separated from the front room by a partition, in which were two doors, one leading into the enclosed space behind the desks and counters, and the other into the passageway formed by the north wall and a length of high desk, topped by a railing. The teller’s or cashier’s counter faced the street opposite the entrance door. At the left of this counter (viewed from the front) was a high-standing desk, with a rail. At the right was a glass-enclosed space of counter of the same height as that portion which was open, across which latter the business of paying and receiving was conducted.
As John entered he saw standing behind this open counter, framed, as it were, between the desk on the one hand, and the glass enclosure on the other, a person whom he conjectured to be the “Chet” (short for Chester) Timson of whom he had heard. This person nodded in response to our friend’s “Good morning,” and anticipated his inquiry by saying:
“You lookin’ for Dave?”
“I am looking for Mr. Harum,” said John. “Is he in the office?”
“He hain’t come in yet,” was the reply. “Up to the barn, I reckon, but he’s liable to come in any minute, an’ you c’n step into the back room an’ wait fer him,” indicating the direction with a wave of his hand.
Business had not begun to be engrossing, though the bank was open, and John had hardly seated himself when Timson came into the back room and, taking a chair where he could see the counter in the front office, proceeded to investigate the stranger, of whose identity he had not the smallest doubt. But it was not Mr. Timson’s way to take things for granted in silence, and it must be admitted that his curiosity in this particular case was not without warrant. After a scrutiny of John’s face and person, which was not brief enough to be unnoticeable, he said, with a directness which left nothing in that line to be desired, “I reckon you’re the new man Dave’s ben gettin’ up from the city.”
“I came up yesterday,” admitted John.
“My name’s Timson,” said Chet.
“Happy to meet you,” said John, rising and putting out his hand. “My name is Lenox,” and they shook hands—that is, John grasped the ends of four limp fingers. After they had subsided into their seats, Chet’s opaquely bluish eyes made another tour of inspection, in curiosity and wonder.
“You alwus lived in the city?” he said at last.
“It has always been my home,” was the reply.
“What put it in your head to come up here?” with another stare.
“It was at Mr. Harum’s suggestion,” replied John, not with perfect candor; but he was not minded to be drawn out too far.
“D’ye know Dave?”
“I have never met him.” Mr. Timson looked more puzzled than ever.
“Ever ben in the bankin’ bus’nis?”
“I have had some experience of such accounts in a general way.”
“Ever keep books?”
“Only as I have told you,” said John, smiling at the little man.
“Got any idee what you’ll
