“My credit is too good.”
“Your credit won’t be worth a rush if people know this.”
While they talked persons kept dropping in. Most of the villagers and people of the neighborhood brought back the notes, demanding gold. By about twelve o’clock the influx was constant.
Potts began to feel alarmed. He went out, and tried to bully some of the villagers. They did not seem to pay any attention to him, however. Potts went back to his parlor discomfited, vowing vengeance against those who had thus slighted him. The worst of these was the tailor, who brought in notes to the extent of a thousand pounds, and when Potts ordered him out and told him to wait, only laughed in his face.
“Haven’t you got gold enough?” said the tailor, with a sneer. “Are you afraid of the bank? Well, old Potts, so am I.”
At this there was a general laugh among the people.
The bank clerks did not at all sympathize with the bank. They were too eager to pay out. Potts had to check them. He called them in his parlor, and ordered them to pay out more slowly. They all declared that they couldn’t.
The day dragged on till at last three o’clock came. Fifteen thousand pounds had been paid out. Potts fell into deep despondency. Clark had remained throughout the whole morning.
“There’s going to be a run on the bank!” said he. “It’s only begun.”
Potts’s sole answer was a curse.