But he felt not the least bit cheery. He thought of the last Thanksgiving spent in Hometon, of mother, sister and Frankie—and the dinner. It must be confessed that, in his memory, the dinner shared with Frankie.
If Evan had been crooked, instead of turkey-dressing and home-scenes he would have been thinking of the money within his grasp. As it was, the filthy lucre never entered his head. He did think of the double responsibility, and it made him proud; but that was the extent of his money speculations.
While he sat in the acting-manager's chair dreaming of home and wondering why he had not written Frankie a letter this week, a gentle tap came to the front door of the bank, which was always locked at noon on Saturdays. Evan peeked out to ascertain whether or not it was a customer who could be avoided. A bright eye met the bare spot in the frosted glass he was utilizing, and with a laugh he opened the door.
"Mr. Nelson," said Lily, blushing; "I beg your pardon, but could you let me have a little mucilage?"
"Sure," he said; "come in. We'll have to shut the door or some gink will be coming along for a loan."
Lily hesitated a moment, but seeing no way out finally entered. Evan went behind his desk to get the mucilage. While he was rummaging there another rap came to the door, and Lily peered out.
"It's a farmer," she whispered, running back to where Evan was.
"Don't let him know we're here then," said the clerk; "I can't open up for him."
The disappointed customer hung around, hoping, no doubt, to be humored, as he had often been. Nelson and the young girl from the post-office stood behind a high desk waiting for the intruder to leave.
"Just think," whispered Lily, "what the gossips of this town would say if they knew—"