It was one of those old-fashioned banks, in which the liability is unlimited, but its shares were reckoned as good as Bank of England notes. People would as soon have expected to hear of Rothschild pawning his watch to get a dinner as that the Great Blankshire Bank had come to grief.
The liabilities were enormous; but the first thought was for the unhappy shareholders. The depositors were safe. They would be paid to the uttermost farthing. The loss would strip the shareholders to the skin, and their garments would be divided among the creditors.
No wonder the unhappy people on whom the blow fell reeled beneath the force of it. It was so sudden, so crushing, that it wrung something like a cry of agony from the victims.
Men, who in the morning were prosperous citizens, sought their couches that night with bankruptcy staring them in the face.
Well-to-do tradesmen, whose business gave them no uneasiness, and who believed themselves safe from all commercial disasters, found themselves suddenly called upon to part with the whole of their capital and trade as best they could on an empty exchequer.
On all classes of the community the blow fell heavily, but most cruelly, perhaps, on men who had, after a long and laborious career, retired with the fruits of their honest industry, hoping to spend the remainder of their days in ease and comfort.
It was after tea on the fatal evening, and Mr. Adrian was deep in his favourite volumes, his wife and daughter and little Gertie sitting in their accustomed places.
A man passed along the quiet street shouting something.
All they heard at first was:
‘Speshul’dition.’