“None at all,” said I, in utter ignorance of what he was driving at. “None at all; no one knew I was leaving,” and I smiled as if I had said something good.
“No, I did not mean that,” said the manager. “It seems you have not heard the news. Brown and Co. have suspended payment. We have just had a telegram to that effect,” which he handed me to read. “Do you bank there?” he asked.
“Upon my word,” I said, “I don’t know. I never read the name of the firm; I only know that I pay a small sum in monthly, and write a few cheques as occasion requires.”
“You’re a pretty fellow,” said the manager.
“Now I come to think of it,” said I, “that must be my bank, as there is no other in the place, except a small branch which has just been opened within the last few months by Burney and Co.”
“Well, I am sorry for you,” said my friend.
“Oh, it don’t matter much to me,” I replied, with a vain attempt at a smile. Yet I was terribly annoyed, nevertheless. I had let my deposit increase more than was my general habit, thinking as Christmas was coming I would postpone settling little accounts till after the festivities of the Christmas season were over. I was now lamenting I had done anything of the kind. I was not very happy. Our little town of B— is a rising place, where people come and spend a lot of money in the summer. Some spirited individual or other is always putting up new buildings. Speculation is rife, and the tradesmen hope to grow prosperous as the place prospers. Anybody with half-a-crown in his pocket to spare is hardly ever seen. They all bank at Brown’s. I daresay such of them as are able overdraw. Private bankers who are anxious to do business offer great facilities in this respect; but still there are many, chiefly poor widows and sailors who make a little money in the summer, and they bank it all. We have a church that is about to be enlarged, and the money that has been raised for the purpose was placed
in the bank, and we have a few retired officers and tradesmen who have their money there. “They ha’ got £300 of my money,” said an angry farmer, as he banged away at the closed door, on which a notice was suspended that, in consequence of temporary difficulties, the bank had stopped payment for a few days. “You might ha’ given a fellow the hint to take out his money,” said another irritated individual to the manager, whom persistent knocking had brought to the door. I was sorry for the manager; he always wore a smile on his face. That smile had vanished as the last rose of summer. No one in B— was more upset than he was when the catastrophe occurred. Some of the knowing ones in town had smelt a rat; one or two depositors had drawn out very heavily. Our smiling manager had no conception of what was to happen till, just as he was sitting down to his breakfast, with his smiling wife and ruddy, fat-cheeked little ones, there came to him a telegram from headquarters to the effect that he was not to open, followed by a messenger with despatches of which he was as ignorant as the merest ploughboy. I must say that in the headquarters the secret was well kept, whatever the leakage elsewhere.
Coming back to B—, the bright little town seemed sitting in the shadow of death. “Any news?” said I to the station-master as I got
out of the train. “Only that the bank is broke,” was the reply. “Ah! that won’t matter to you,” said one to me, “your friends will help you.” In vain I repeated that I had no friends. “Ah, well,” said another, “you can work; it is the old, the infirm, the sick, who are past work, for whom I am sorry.” And thus I am left to sleep off my losses as best I may, trying to believe that the difficulty is only temporary, and positively assured in some quarters that the bank will open all right next day. Alas! hope tells a flattering tale. Next morning, after a decent interval, to show that, like Dogberry, I am used to losses, I take my morning walk and casually pass the bank, only to see that the door is as firmly closed as ever; I read all the morning papers, and they tell me that the bank will be opened as usual at ten. I know better, and all I meet are sorrowing. One melancholy depositor, who tells me that the bank has all the money he has taken this summer and his pension besides, assures me that the bank will open at twelve. I pass two hours later, and it is still shut. Women are weeping as they see ruin staring them in the face. Woe to me; my butcher calls for his little account. I have to ask him to call again. I see the tax-gatherer eyeing me from afar, likewise the shoemaker; but I rush inside to find that the midday mail has arrived, bringing me a letter from town, as