Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

“Look here, gentlemen,” he had said, imposing silence from his hearth-rug and pressing his points with wagging forefinger, “do you know what happens when you pay a thousand pounds into a bank? No, you don’t? Well, I’ll tell you. They put a hundred pounds into the till, and they lend out four thousand pounds on the strength of the other nine hundred. If they lend more than that, or lend that without security, they go beyond legitimate banking. Now you know as much as I do. A banker’s money is out on bills payable in two months or four, it’s out on the security of shares and farms and shop-stock, it’s lent on securities that cannot be realized in five minutes. But it’s all there, mark me, somewhere, in something, gentlemen; and I tell you candidly that it’s my opinion that if you would all go home and wait for your money till you need it, you’d all get it in full, twenty shillings in the pound.”

He meant no harm, but unfortunately the men who heard the lecture paid no heed to the latter part, but went out, impressed with the former, and spread it broad-cast. On which some cried, “That’s banking, is it! Shameful, I call it!” while others said, “Well, I call it robbery! The old tea-pot for me after this!” A few were for moving off at once and breaking Ovington’s windows, and going on to Dean’s and serving them the same. But they were restrained, things had not quite come to that; and it was an orderly if excited throng that once more waited on Bride Hill and in the Market Place for the opening of the doors.

Not all who gathered there had anything to lose. Many were mere onlookers. But here and there were to be seen compressed lips, pale faces, anxious eyes. Here and there women gripped books in feverish fingers or squeezed handkerchiefs into tight balls; and now and again a man broke into bad words and muttered what he would do if they robbed him. There were country shopkeepers who had lodged the money to meet the traveller’s account, and trembled for its safety. There were girls who saw their hard-earned portions at stake, and parsons whose hearts ached as they thought of the invalid wife or the boy’s school-bill; and there were at least a score who knew that if the blow fell the bailiff, never far from the threshold, would be in the house. Before the eyes of not a few rose the spectres of the poorhouse and a pauper funeral.

Standing in groups or dotted amid the crowd were bigger men—wool-brokers and cattle-dealers—men loud in bar-parlors and great among their fellows, whose rubicund faces showed flabby and mottled, and whose fleshy lips moved in endless calculations. How was this bill to be met, and who would renew that one? Too often the end of their calculations spelled ruin—if the bank failed. Ruin—and many were they who depended on these big men: wage-earners, clerks, creditors, poor relations! One man walking up and down under the arcade of the Market House was the centre for many eyes. He was an auctioneer from a neighboring town, a man of wide dealings, who, it was whispered, had lodged with Ovington’s the proceeds of his last great sale—a sum running into thousands and due every penny to the vendor.

His case and other hard cases were whispered by one to another, and, bruited about, they roused the passions even of those who were not involved. Yet when the bank at length opened on the stroke of ten an odd thing happened. A sigh, swelling to a murmur, rose from the dense crowd, but no one moved. The expected came as the unexpected, there was a moment of suspense, of waiting. No one advanced. Then some one raised a shout and there was a rush for the entrance; men struggled and women were thrust aside, smaller men were borne in on the arms of their fellows. A wail rose from the unsuccessful, but no man heeded it, or waited for his neighbor, or looked aside to see who it was who strove and thrust and struggled at his elbow. They pushed in tumultuously, their country boots drumming on the boards. Their entrance was like the inrush of an invading army.

The clerks, the cashier, Ovington himself, stood at the counter waiting motionless to receive them, confronting them with what courage they might. But the strain of the preceding day had told. The clerks could not conceal their misgivings, and even Rodd failed to bear himself with the chilling air which had yesterday abashed the modest. He shot vindictive glances across the counter, his will was still good to wither, but the crowd was to-day made up of rougher material, was more brusque and less subservient. They cared nothing for him, and he looked, in spite of his efforts, weary and dispirited. There was no longer any pretence that things were normal or that the bank was not face to face with a crisis. The gloves were off. They were no longer banker and customers. They were enemies.

It was Ovington himself who this morning stood forward, and in a few cold words informed his friends that they would all be paid, requesting them at the same time to be good enough to keep order and await their turns, otherwise it would be impossible to proceed with the business. He added a single sentence, in which he expressed his regret that those who had known him so long should doubt, as he could only suppose that they did doubt, his ability to meet his engagements.

It was well done, with calmness and dignity, but as he ceased to speak—his appearance had for the moment imposed silence—a disturbance broke out near the door. A man thrust himself in. Ovington, already in the act of turning, recognized the newcomer, and a keen observer might have noted that his face, grave before, turned a shade paler. But he met the blow. “Is that Mr. Yapp?” he asked.

It was the auctioneer from Iron Ferry. “Ay, Mr. Ovington, it is,” he said, the perspiration on his face, “and you know my position.”

Ovington nodded. Yapp was one of five depositors—big men—whose claims had been, for the last twenty-four hours, a nightmare to him. But he let nothing be seen, and “Kindly let Mr. Yapp pass,” he said; “I will deal with him myself.” Then, as one or two murmured and protested, “Gentlemen,” he said sternly, “you must let me conduct my business in my own way, or I close my doors. Let Mr. Yapp pass, if you please.”