Tomlinson was about to rush distractedly out of the room, when the cashier was summoned into the public department of the establishment.
Five minutes elapsed ere his return—five minutes which appeared five hours to James Tomlinson.
At length the old man came back; and this time he did not carry his snuff-box in his hand.
Without uttering a word, he took the "notice of stoppage" off the table, crushed it in his hand, and threw it into the fire.
"Saved once more," he murmured, as he watched the paper burning to tinder; and when it was completely consumed, he took a long and hearty pinch of snuff.
"Saved!" echoed Tomlinson: "do you mean that we are saved again?"
"Seven thousand four hundred and sixty-seven pounds just paid in to Dobson and Dobbins's account," answered the cashier, coolly and leisurely, as if he himself experienced not the slightest emotion.
In another hour there were fifteen thousand pounds in the safe; and when the bank closed that evening at the usual time, this sum had swollen up to twenty thousand and some hundreds.
This day was a specimen of the life of James Tomlinson, the banker.
Readers, when you pass by the grand commercial and financial establishments of this great metropolis, pause and reflect ere you envy their proprietors! In the parlours and offices of those reputed emporiums of wealth are men whose minds are a prey to the most agonising feelings—the most poignant emotions.