It took Penton quite a while to get in the bank door, as he had with him a wife and two poodle-dogs, the latter property especially requiring much attention and considerable coaching before they would condescend to enter the office. Possibly their pampered puppy noses sniffed some of the trouble that was to come. Dogs are prophetic when there is something undesirable to be foretold.
Mr. Jones had gone out on the morning train and would not be back for a day or two. Consequently Evan, next in charge of Banfield branch, was obliged to receive the new dictator: such it was Penton's disposition to be.
He strutted through the office to the cage, where Evan was busy with a customer, and spoke half civilly:
"Are you the accountant here?"
The teller turned around, with a bunch of counted bills in his hand.
"Yes, sir," he said, "just a minute and I'll be out."
"Come out now," said Penton.
Evan finished waiting on the customer, who had been standing in front of the wicket long enough, and then obeyed the manager. The two looked at each other challengingly. Penton's expression was almost a glare. The teller stood his ground. He conceived a ready dislike for the tall figure before him. At length Penton extended his hand. It was bony and cold. Evan discarded it as quickly as possible and called over the rest of the staff for introduction.
Filter shook hands methodically, scarcely raising his eyes to meet the bulging, colorless eyes of Penton. Henty blushed, but his gaze was unwavering. The dogs barked uproariously, scampering to and fro like rats. Mrs. Penton, from the manager's office, tried to quiet them, but they seemed bent on carrying out the bluff they had started, imitating in that respect their male master.
"I've got an infernal toothache," said Penton, speaking to the junior, "would you run across to the hotel and get me some brandy? If that doesn't stop it I'll have to see a doctor."