CHAPTER II.
For three hours Richard Westwood had been subjected to a severer strain than most men have to submit to in the course of their lives. He was, as has already been stated, the senior partner in the chief banking house of Brackenshire—an old and highly-respected establishment. In fact, there was a time when the stability of the house of Westwood, Westwood, Barwell, & Westwood was regarded as at least equal to that of the county itself. Only an earthquake could, it was thought, produce any impression upon an English wheat-growing county, and a cataclysm of corresponding violence in the financial world would be required to shake the stability of Westwoods' Bank.
But in the course of time the importation of wheat in thousands of tons from America and elsewhere caused the most earnest believers in the stability of an English agricultural county to stand aghast; and then a day came when a bank or two of quite as great respectability as Westwoods' closed their doors and stopped payment all inside a single week. In a country where people talk about things being “as safe as the bank” such an occurrence produces an impression similar to that of a thunderstorm in December or a frozen lake in June: people begin to question the accuracy of their senses. If the bank where they and their fathers and grandfathers have deposited their money for years back beyond any remembrance, closes its doors, what is there on earth that can be trusted?
It was toward the close of this phenomenal week that the rumour arose in brackenhurst that Westwoods' Bank would be the next to fall. No one knew where the rumour originated—no one knew what foundation there was for such a rumour—no one who had money lodged in the bank seemed to inquire.
Even up to noon on the day when the run upon the Brackenhurst offices took place, nothing occurred to suggest that a panic was imminent among the customers of the bank. For two hours the business of the establishment was normal; Mr. Westwood was in his own room, discussing with his solicitor the validity of some documents offered as security for an overdraft by a local firm; the cashier, having received a few small lodgments, was writing a letter to the Secretary of the Styrton Cricket Club regarding the visit of the Brackenhurst Eleven on the Saturday; two of the other members of the staff were considering the very important question as to whether they should have their cups of coffee at once or wait for another halfhour, when, with the suddenness of a quick change of scenery at a well-managed theatre, the swingdoors were flung open and the bank was filled to overflowing with an eager crowd, crushing one another against the mahogany counters in their endeavours to reach the stand of the cashier.
Panic-stricken were the faces at which the cashier looked up from his half-finished letter—faces that communicated their panic to all who saw them. The cashier caught it in a moment: he glanced hastily round as if seeking for a way of escape.
The men and women, perceiving that he had lost his head, became wilder in their attempts to get opposite his desk. Outside, the crowd, striving to reach the doors of the bank, had become clamorous. The High Street of Brackenhurst was in an uproar. The two clerks had ceased to discuss the great coffee question. They were thinking of their revolvers.
As the panic-stricken cashier stood looking vacantly into the pale faces before him, but making no effort to attend to the three men who waved their cheques across the counter, Mr. Westwood came out of his room by the side of his solicitor. He was smiling as he shook hands and said goodbye. There was an instantaneous silence in the place.
“We shall see you at the cricket match on Saturday,” were the words that came through the silence from Mr. Westwood, as he shook hands with the other man. “If the weather continues like this it will be a batsman's day.”
He waved his hand as the solicitor went out into the crowd. The crowd that had been almost clamorous a minute before were now breathless with astonishment. They stared at the man who, when ruin was in the air, was talking of cricket. A batsman's day! A batsman's day! What did it mean? What manner of man was this who could talk quietly of a batsman's day when over his head the sword of Damocles was hanging?