BUSINESS AS USUAL.
"Business as usual!" said Mr Pamphlett heartily to his clerk Mr
Hendy, as he let himself in at 9.40 by the side door of the Bank.
Mr Hendy lived on the premises, which his wife served as caretaker,
with a "help" to do the scrubbing.
Mr Hendy, always punctual, stood ready in the passage, awaiting his master. He received Mr Pamphlett's top-hat and walking-stick, helped him off with his black frock-coat, helped him on with the light alpaca jacket in which during the hot weather Mr Pamphlett combined banking with comfort.
"Business as usual!" said Mr Pamphlett, slipping into the alpaca.
"That's the motto. Old England's sound, Hendy!"
"Yes, sir: leastways, I hope so."
"Sound as a bell. It's money will put us through this, Hendy, as it always has. We mayn't wear uniforms"—Mr Pamphlett smoothed down the alpaca over his stomach—"but we're the real sinews of this War."
Mr Hendy—a slight middle-aged man, with fluffy straw-coloured hair which he grew long above his ears, to compensate for the baldness of his cranium—answered that he was glad Mr Pamphlett took it in so hearty a fashion, but for his part, if it wasn't for the Missus, he was dying to enlist and have a slap at the Germans. Mr Pamphlett laughed and entered his private office. Here every morning he dealt with his correspondence; while Hendy, in the main room of the Bank, unlocked the safe, fetched out the ready cash and the ledgers, and generally made preparations before opening the door for business on the stroke of ten.
Five or six letters awaited Mr Pamphlett. One he recognised by envelope and handwriting as a missive from headquarters: and he opened it first, wondering a little, pausing, as he broke the seal, to examine the post-marks. "Yesterday had been Bank Holiday. . . . But, to be sure, in these times the Head Office would very likely be neglecting Bank Holidays, the clerks working at high pressure. . . ."
But no: the London post-mark bore date "Aug. 1." The letter had been received and delivered at Polpier on the 2nd, and had been lying in the bank letter-box for two whole days. He broke the seal in some trepidation: for he had spent the last sixty hours or so of national emergency on a visit with Mrs Pamphlett to her brother-in-law, a well-to-do farmer, who dwelt some twelve miles inland. Here Mr Pamphlett, after punctual and ample meals, had gently stimulated digestion with hot brandy-and-water (which never comes amiss, even in August, if you happen to be connected with farming and have duly kept the Sabbath), and had sat with one leg crossed over the other, exchanging—rather by his composed bearing than in actual words— confidence in Britain's financial stability against confidence in her agriculture. His presence had somewhat eased a trying situation at Lawhilly Farm, where his young fool of a nephew—an only son, too— fired by the war, had gone so far as to distress his parents with talk of enlisting.
"Business as usual!" had been Mr Pamphlett's advice to the young man. "There was, for a day or two—I won't deny it—a certain—er— tendency to what I may call nervousness in the City. Can we wonder at it, holding as we do so many—er—threads?" Mr Pamphlett held up his two hands, and spread them as though they contained a skein of wool to be unwound. "But the Chancellor of the Exchequer took steps. Opposed as I am in a general way to the present Government, I am free to admit that, at this juncture, the Chancellor of the Exchequer realised his responsibilities and—er—took steps. Markets may—er— fluctuate for some weeks to come—may, as I would put it, exhibit a certain amount of—er—unsteadiness. But we shall tide that over, easily—as I am advised, quite easily. Great Britain's credit is solid; that's the word, solid: and if that—er—solidarity holds true of our monetary system with"—here Mr Pamphlett expanded and contracted his fingers as if gathering gossamers—"its delicate and far-reaching complexities. . . That was an excellent duck, James," said he, turning to his brother-in-law. "I don't remember when I've tasted a better."