But an hour or two later a thing occurred which might have passed unnoticed at another time, but on that day had a meaning for three out of the five in the bank. The door opened a little more abruptly than usual, a man pushed his way in. He was a publican in a fair way of business in the town, a smug ruddy-gilled man who, in his younger days, had been a pugilist at Birmingham and still ran a cock-pit behind the Spotted Dog, between the Foregate and the river. He stepped to the counter, his small shrewd eyes roving slyly from one to another.
Arthur went forward to attend to him. “What is it, Mr. Brownjohn?” he asked. But already his suspicions were aroused.
“Well, sir,” the man answered bluntly, “what we most of us want, sir. The rhino!”
“Then you’ve come to the right shop for that,” Arthur rejoined, falling into his humor. “How much?”
“How’s my account, sir?”
Arthur consulted the book which he took from a ledge below the counter. In our time he would have scribbled the sum on a scrap of paper and passed the paper over in silence. But in those days many customers would have been none the wiser for that, for they could not read. So, “One, four, two, and three and six-pence,” he said.
“Well, I’ll take it,” the publican announced, gazing straight before him.
Arthur understood, but not a muscle of his face betrayed his knowledge. “Brewers’ day?” he said lightly. “Mr. Rodd, draw a cheque for Mr. Brownjohn. One four two, three and six. Better leave five pounds to keep the account open?”
“Oh, well!” Mr. Brownjohn was a little taken aback. “Yes, sir, very well.”
“One three seven, Rodd, three and six.” And while the customer, laboriously and with a crimsoning face, scrawled his signature on the cheque, Arthur opened a drawer and counted out the amount in Ovington’s notes. “Twenty-seven fives, and two, three, six,” he muttered, pushing it over. “You’ll find that right, I think.”