"Good-morning, Mrs. Bingham. Pleasant—"
"I want my money. Where's Lincoln?"
She had read that morning of two bank failures—one in Nova Scotia and one in Massachusetts—and they seemed providential warnings to her. Lincoln's absence confirmed them.
"He's gone to St. Paul—won't be back till the five-o'clock train. Do you need some money this morning? How much?"
"All of it, sir. Every cent."
Sanford saw something was out of gear. He tried to explain. "I've sent your son to St. Paul after some money—"
"Where's my money? What have you done with that?" In her excitement she thought of her money just as she hand handed it in—silver and little rolls and wads of bills.
"If you'll let me explain—"
"I don't want you to explain nawthin'. Jest hand me out my money."
Two or three loafers, seeing her gesticulate, stopped on the walk outside and looked in at the door. Sanford was annoyed, but he remained calm and persuasive. He saw that something had caused a panic in the good, simple old woman. He wished for Lincoln as one wishes for a policeman sometimes.