To Evan, who knew what a bank inspection meant, this one was particularly unwelcome. Inspections always are, to experienced clerks, who have no regard for the novelty of the thing; they mean from one to three weeks' work, day and night without let-up. But the blinding work is not the worst of it; the suspense is what unnerves and worries. A fellow never knows what moment he is going to get a figurative knock-out from the head office official. The inspector, if he happens to have indigestion or domestic trouble, can be appallingly disagreeable.
Henty had never been through the ordeal of an inspection, but he had heard about it. He stood now staring at the teller, comically.
"Gee," he said, "and old Peterson has had one of my drafts out for three days. A sight, too."
Filter was in a dream about the ledger. Evan was thinking. He did not like Inspector Castle; he felt that he could not expect much of him. Still, he determined he would tell his story. Evan had no very definite conception, at the time, of what that story would be; and when Castle and Penton went over to the hotel for a drink, before setting to work, he wondered whether it would be advisable to speak about the silver at all.
Penton stayed close to the inspector, as though unwilling to leave him alone with the teller. Evan saw it plainly, but what could he do? It was not for him to thrust himself on I. Castle, or tell him whom he should or should not ignore. Ignored! that was it! The $350-man was beneath the notice of an inspector. It occurred to Evan now why head office had not answered his letter. What right had he to write head office? He could not, in this connection, forget the look Castle had given him at the bank door, with the words: "I came to inspect the branch."
The manager's efforts to please and assist the inspector were both pitiful and burlesque, to those who knew his daily habits. He wedged himself into the cage with Castle, handing him parcels of money to count, and playing the caddy to perfection. He lifted a bag of silver, and as he did so his bulging eyes rested waveringly on the teller, who was watching. At the same moment Evan heard his name spoken softly from the hall. Mrs. Penton was calling him.
"Mr. Nelson," she whispered, when they stood out of hearing in the shadow of the hall, "I want to ask you something."
Her patient face bore a frightened look, her eyes and voice were beseeching.
"What is it, Mrs. Penton?" he asked, kindly.
"It's about Pen," she said. "You'll try to help out, won't you?"