MISFORTUNE MEDDLES
Shortly before the supper hour, Britt and Starr came into the bank; they wore their overcoats and hats, and were on their way to the tavern, evidently.
“How are you making it, Frank?” the president inquired, with solicitude.
A sympathetic observer would have found a suggestion of captives, caged and hopeless, in the demeanor of the cashier and the bookkeeper behind the grille.
Vaniman peered through the lattice into the gloom where the callers stood and shook his head. “I'm not making it well at all, sir.”
“But you must have some idea of what the trouble is.”
“There's trouble, all right, Mr. Britt—plenty of it. There's no use in my denying that. But I'm not far enough along to give any sensible explanation.”
The president showed real anxiety. “What do you say for a guess?”
“If you are asking me only for a guess, I should say that the ghost of Jim the Penman has been amusing himself with these books,” replied the cashier; he was bitter; he was showing the effects of worry that was aggravated by lack of sleep.
“Aha! Plainly not far enough along for a sensible explanation,” rumbled Examiner Starr.