Almost beside himself with love and rage, Dillard strode up and shook his fist in his new friend's face, forgetting, no doubt, that Glenning shared his views.
"Yes, we've got to find a way, Dillard," repeated John, in even tones, and he looked down at the table where the papers lay.
"Then how, how, I say?" demanded his caller, furiously. "It's got to be done quickly—at once! Major hasn't ten dollars in bank, and Marston's positive orders are he shan't overdraw!"
"No, he shan't overdraw," again repeated John, and his gaze was still downcast.
"Then how in hell are you goin' to manage it?"
Dillard's religious training was slipping away in the stress of the moment.
John went into his reception room and came back with another chair. This he placed on the other side of the table and occupied, motioning his friend to draw up to the spot where he had formerly sat. When Dillard, fuming and wrathful, had done so, he again fired the query:
"How are you goin' to do it?"
"This way," answered John, and he quietly picked up the draft and laid it between Dillard's hands.
The bank clerk's fingers closed upon the paper, and when he had read the wording on its face, simple amazement and a total lack of comprehension was reflected from his flushed countenance.