But Mr. Buffery had not got his book, as Rodd had noticed. On that the cashier slowly drew from a shelf below the counter a large ledger, and, turning the leaves, began a methodical search for the account.
But this was too much for the patience of the man last on the right, who saw six before him, and had left no one to take care of his shop. “But, see here,” he cried imperiously. “Mr. Rodd, I’m in a hurry! If that young man at the desk could attend to me I shouldn’t take long.”
Rodd, keeping his place in the book with his finger, looked at him. “Do you want to pay in, Mr. Bevan?” he asked gravely.
“No. I want forty-two, seven, ten. Here’s my cheque.”
“You want cash?”
“That’s it.”
“Well, I’m the cashier in this bank. No one else pays cash. That’s the rule of the bank. Now, Mr. Buffery,” leisurely turning back to the page in the ledger, and running his finger down it. “Thirty-five, two, six. That’s right, is it?”
“That’s right, sir.” Buffery knuckled his forehead gratefully.
“You’ve brought a cheque?”
But Buffery had not brought a cheque. Rodd shrugged his shoulders, called the senior clerk forward, and entrusted the customer, who was no great scholar, to his care. Then he closed the ledger, returned it carefully to the shelf, and turned methodically to the next in the line. “Now, Mr. Medlicott, what do you want? Are you paying, or drawing?”