“A year or two ago. I gave him an answer, Johnny; and I fancy he has not altogether liked me since. ‘I could not think of placing even a shilling of Johnny Ludlow’s where I did not know it to be safe,’ I said to him. ‘It will be safe with me,’ says Pell, sharply. ‘Possibly so, Mr Pell,’ I answered; ‘but you see there’s only your word as guarantee, and that is not enough for an honest trustee.’ That shut him up.”
“Do you mean to say you have doubted Clement-Pell’s stability, Brandon?” demanded the Squire, who was near enough to hear this.
“I don’t know about doubting,” was the answer. “I have thought it as likely to come to a smash as not. That the chances for it were rather better than half.”
This sent the Squire on again. He had no umbrella; and his straw hat glistened in the heat.
Church Dykely was in a commotion. Folk were rushing up to the little branch Bank black in the face, as if their collars throttled them; for the news was spreading like fire in dry turf. The Squire went bolting in through every obstruction, and seized upon the manager.
“Do you mean to tell me that it’s true, Robertson?” he fiercely cried.—“That things have gone to smash?”
“I am afraid it is, sir,” said Robertson, who looked more dead than alive. “I am unable to understand it. It has fallen upon me with as much surprise as it has on others.”
“Now, don’t you go and tell falsehoods, Robertson,” roared the Squire, as if he meant to shake the man. “Surprise upon you, indeed! Why, have you not been here—at the head and tail of everything?”
“But I did not know how affairs were going. Indeed, sir, I tell you truth.”
“Tell a jackass not to bray!” foamed the Squire. “Have you been short of funds here lately, or have you not? Come, answer me that.”