Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

“Mr. Bourdillon?” The broker stared, unable on the instant to recall his thoughts, and from the way in which he wiped his bald and steaming head with a yellow bandanna, it was plain that he had just got something of moment off his mind. “Pheugh! What times!” he ejaculated, fanning himself and breathing hard. “What a morning! You’ve heard, I suppose? Everitt’s are gone. Gone within the hour, d—n them! Oh, Bourdillon? It was Bourdillon you asked for? To be sure, it’s Mr. Ovington, isn’t it? I thought so; I never forget a face, but he didn’t tell me that you were here. By Jove!” He raised his hands—he was a portly gentleman, wearing a satin under-vest and pins and chains innumerable, all at this moment a little awry. “By Jove, what a find you have there! Slap, bang, and tip to the mark, and no mistake! Hard and sharp as nails! I take off my hat to him! There’s not a firm,” mopping his heated face anew, “within half a mile of us that wouldn’t be glad to have him! I’ll take my Davy there are not ten men in country practice could have pushed the deal through, and squeezed eleven thousand in cash out of Snell & Higgins on such a day as this! He’s a marvel, Mr. Ovington! You can tell your father I said so, and I don’t care who says the contrary.”

“But is he here?” Clement cried, dancing with impatience. “Is he here, man?”

“Gone to the India House this—” he looked at his watch—“this half-hour, to complete. He had to drop seven per cent. for cash on the nail—that, of course! But he got six thousand odd in Bank paper, and five thou. in gold, and I’m damned if any one else would have got that to-day, though the stuff he had was as good as the ready in ordinary times. My partner’s gone with him to Leadenhall Street to complete—glad to oblige you, for God knows how many clients we shall have left after this—and they’ve a hackney coach waiting in Bishopsgate and an officer to see them to it. You may catch him at the India House, or he may be gone. He’s not one to let the grass grow under his feet. In that case——”

“Send a clerk with me to show me the Office!” Clement cried. “It’s urgent, man, urgent! And I don’t know my way inside the House. I must catch him.”

“Well, with so much money—here, Nicky!” The broker stepped aside to make room for a client who came up the stairs three at a time. “Nicky, go with this gentleman! Show him the way to the India House. Transfer Office—Letter G! Sharp’s the word. Don’t lose time.—Coming! Coming!” to some one in the office. “My compliments to your father. He’s one of the lucky ones, for I suppose this will see you through. It’s Boulogne or this—” he made as if he held a pistol to his head—“for more than I care to think of!”

But Clement had not waited to hear the last words. He was half-way down the stairs with his hand on the boy’s collar. They plunged into Cornhill, but the lad, a London-bred urchin, did not condescend to the street for more than twenty yards or so. Then he dived into a court on the same side of the way, crossed it, threaded a private passage through some offices, and came out in Bishopsgate Street. Stemming the crowd as best they could they crossed this, and by another alley and more offices the lad convoyed his charge into Leadenhall Street. A last rush saw them landed, panting and with their coats wellnigh torn from their backs, on the pavement on the south side of the street, in front of the pillared entrance, and beneath the colossal Britannia that, far above their heads and flanked by figures of Europe and Asia, presided over the fortunes of the greatest trading company that the world has ever seen. Through the doors of that building—now, alas, no more—had passed all the creators of an oriental empire, statesmen, soldiers, merchant princes, Clive, Lawrence, Warren Hastings, Cornwallis. Yet to-day, the mention of it calls up as often the humble figure of a black-coated white-cravated clerk with spindle legs and a big head, who worked within its walls and whom Clement, had he called a few months earlier, might have met coming from his desk.

Here Clement, had he been without a guide, would have wasted precious minutes. But the place had no mysteries for the boy, even on this day of confusion and alarm. Skilled in every twist and turning, he knew no doubt. “This way,” he snapped, hurrying down a long passage which faced the entrance, and appeared to penetrate into the bowels of the building. Then, “No! Not that way, stupid! What are you doing?”

But Clement’s eyes, as he followed, had caught sight of a party of three, who, issuing from a corridor on the right at a considerable distance before them, had as quickly disappeared down another corridor on the left. The light was not good, but Clement had recognized one of them, and “There he is!” he cried. “He has gone down there! Where does that lead to?”

“Lime Street entrance!” the lad replied curtly, and galloped after the party, Clement at his heels. “Hurry!” he threw over his shoulder, “or they’ll be out, and, by gum, you’ll lose him! Once out and we’re done, sir!”

They reached the turning the others had taken and ran down it. The distance was but short, but it was long enough to enable Clement to collect his wits, and to wonder, while he prepared himself for the encounter that impended, how Arthur would bear himself at the moment of discovery. Fortunately, the party pursued had paused for an instant in the east vestibule before committing themselves to the street, and that instant was fatal to them. “Bourdillon!” Clement cried, raising his voice. “Hi! Bourdillon!”