The post office at noon was a famous gathering place for the citizenry of Deep Harbor. In front were a line of horses and buggies hitched to posts. The owners congregated mostly on the steps, chewing toothpicks and gossiping. Bootblacks and newspaper boys plied their trades. Every one seemed to know every one else, and each new comer was hailed by his first name or otherwise familiarly greeted. I felt that a stranger was at a great disadvantage in trying to conduct a factory in such an inbred community. Not one of all those men knew me or nodded to me. Yet I judged from the glances directed my way and the whispers that many at least knew who I was. Knowlton had told me that the new owners of the factory had been the subject of many rumours. It was believed we were a blind for one of the large corporations about to begin operations in Deep Harbor on a vast scale.
At last the mail was ready, and I opened our box. Running through the pile of letters, I saw that the check was not there. First I telephoned Knowlton, then crossed the street to the Deep Harbor National Bank, a small box-like building built entirely of white marble in vague resemblance to a miniature Greek temple. My card was unnecessary. The president was seated, for all the world to see, behind a low mahogany railing before a high mahogany desk. He called me by name at my entrance and invited me inside his pen. There was nothing formidable in his appearance. My imagination had pictured the bank president of the stage, an elderly gentleman with white side whiskers, white spats, a sanctimonious air, and a terrible callousness in driving financial bargains. Instead, I beheld a genial young man of thirty-eight to forty with a genial expression on his face. His face was tanned, his hair, just turning grey at the temples, was neatly smoothed down. The eyes were a little too small, almost pig-like, in fact; nevertheless his pleasant smile counteracted the unfavourable impression which his eyes would otherwise have made.
"Have a cigar, Edward?" were his opening words to me. The use of my Christian name encouraged me, for it seemed to imply that I had been admitted to citizenship in good standing. I accepted the greasy, aromatic cigar, although I feared a cigar before luncheon would be disastrous. There seemed, however, no escape in Deep Harbor from the offer of a cigar as a preliminary to any business discussion. As we lighted up and the sickeningly fragrant smoke oozed through my nervous system, he looked keenly at me and said: "Well, Edward, what can we do for you? Money, I suppose," and he glanced at the clock. "You have about forty minutes in which to meet your payroll. Am I right?"
"Absolutely!" I answered promptly. "And here's the reason why you'll meet the payroll for us," and I handed him our statement. He then did a slightly theatrical thing which, I suppose, the rôle of bank president required; it was to produce a pair of tortoise shell goggle spectacles and study our statement through them. I stared about at the onyx and bronze trimmings of the little building and secretly wished I could lose the cigar.
"These contracts look all right on paper, Edward, but you people haven't equipment enough to put them through."
"I don't imagine that we are the first people who have come to you because we are too prosperous—not in a growing town like Deep Harbor," I remarked, surprised at my own diplomacy.
"That's true enough, Edward. But the way I look at it is this. These contracts were made by your predecessors. If you don't make good on them you won't get any more, and you can't make good with your present plant. The friend who sold you the plant, about whom I happen to know a lot, oversold you. In short, you were stung."
"What's to be done?" I asked, rising.
"Sit down, Edward," he replied. "Is there any truth in this story that a big corporation is behind you? I want brass tacks."
"There's not a word of truth in it. We are just what our books show us to be."