The Globe man hastily left the president's room and went up to the bank's gray-coated private policeman who was trying to distinguish between the few who wished to deposit money and the many who desired to ask the sandwich question or at least hoped to hear the answer. The sacred precincts of the Ketcham National Bank had taken on the aspect of a circus arena. H. R.'s erstwhile fellow-clerks looked the only way they dared—terrified! They would have given a great deal to have been able to act as human beings.
"The reporters are in the president's room!" ran the whisper among the clerks. From there it reached the curious mob within the bank. From there it spread to the congested proletariate without the doors. Said proletariate began to grow. Baseball bulletin-boards were not displayed, but the public was going to get something for nothing. Hence, free country.
The Globe man heard one of the bank's messengers call the policeman "Jim." Being a contemporary historian, he addressed the policeman amicably.
"Jim, Mr. Goodchild says to bring in Senator Lowry and party."
With that he beckoned to the Globe's militant photographers and five colleagues and preceded them into the president's private office.
"Quick work, Tommy," warned the reporter.
"Flash?" laconically inquired "Senator Lowry." He was such a famous portraitist that his sitters never gave him time to talk. Hence his habit of speaking while he could. He prepared his flash-powder.
"Yep!" and the reporter nodded.
The others also unlimbered their cameras. The Globe man threw open the door.
The president was angrily haranguing the reporters.