Mr. Medlicott grinned, and sheepishly handed in a cheque. “I’ll draw that,” he mumbled, perspiring freely, while from the crowd behind him, shuffling their feet and breathing loudly, there rose a laugh. Rodd brought out the ledger again, and verified the amount. “Right,” he said presently, and paid over the sum in Dean’s notes and gold.
The man fingered the notes and hesitated. Rodd, about to pass to the next customer, paused. “Well, ain’t they right?” he said. “Dean’s notes. Anything the matter with them?”
The man took them without more, and Rodd paid the next and the next in the same currency, knowing that it would be remarked. “I’ll give them a jog while I can,” he thought. “They deserve it.” And, sure enough, every note of that bank that he paid out was presented across the counter at Dean’s within the hour. It gave Mr. Dean something to think about.
No one, in truth, could have done the work better than Rodd. He was so cool, so precise, so certain of himself. Nothing put him out. He plodded through his usual routine at his usual leisurely pace. He recked nothing of the impatient shuffling crowd on the other side of the counter, nothing of the greedy eyes that grudged every motion of his hand. They might not have existed for him. He looked through them. A plodder, he had no nerves. He was the right man in the right place.
At noon, taking with him a slip of paper, he went to report to Ovington, who had retired to the parlor. They had paid out seventeen hundred pounds in the two hours. At this rate they could go on for a long time. There was only one large account in the room—should he call it up and pay it? It might have a good effect.
Ovington agreed, and Rodd returned to the counter. His eye sought out Mr. Meredith. “I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he said austerely. “But I suppose your time is worth something. If you’ll pass up your cheque I’ll let you go.”
The small fry clamored, but Rodd looked through them. “Eight hundred and ten,” said Meredith with a sigh of relief, passing his cheque over the heads of those before him. He was not ashamed of his balance, but for the moment he was ashamed of himself. He began to suspect that he had let himself be carried away with a lot of silly small chaps—yet his fingers itched to hold the money.
Rodd confirmed the account, fluttered a packet of notes, counted them thrice and slowly, and tossed them to Mr. Meredith. “I make them right,” he said, “but you’d better count them.” Then, to one or two who were muttering something about illegal preference, “Bless your innocent hearts,” he said, “you’ll all be paid!” And he took the next in order as if nothing had happened.
It had its effect, and so had a thing that half an hour later broke the dreary monotony of paying out. A man at the back who had just pressed in—for the crowd, reinforced by new arrivals, was very nearly as large as at the hour of opening—raised his voice, complaining bitterly that he could not stay there all day, and that he wanted to pay in some money and go about his business.
There was a stir of surprise. A dozen turned to look at him.