Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

“It’s done, sir. I won’t have a tongue except to say that the money’s paid. You may depend upon me.”

“Thank you. I shall not forget it.” The clerk brought in the money, and stayed until the sum was counted and checked and the receipt given. Then, “That’s right, Mr. Yapp,” the banker said, and sat back in his chair. “Show Mr. Yapp out, Williams.”

Yapp followed the clerk. His appearance in the bank was greeted by half a dozen voices. “Ha’ you got it?” they cried.

He was a man of his word, and he slapped his pocket briskly. “Every penny!” he said, and something like a cheer went up. “I’d not have worried, but it wasn’t my money.”

Ovington’s appeal to him had been a forlorn hope, and much, now it had failed, did the banker regret it. But he had calculated that that twenty-seven hundred pounds might just make the difference, and he had been tempted. Left to himself he sat, turning it over, and wondering if the auctioneer would be silent; and his face, now that the mask was off, was haggard and careworn. He had slept little the night before, and things were working out as he had feared that they would.

Presently he heard a disturbance in the bank. Something had occurred to break the orderly course of paying out. He rose and went out, a frown on his face. He was prepared for trouble, but he found to his relief that the interruption was caused by nothing worse than his son’s return.

Having given his word to Arthur to carry the money through the bank, Clement had sunk whatever scruples he felt, and had made up his mind to do it handsomely. He had driven up to the door with a flourish, had taken the gold from the chaise under the public eye, and now, with all the parade he could, he was bringing it into the bank. His brisk entrance and cheery presence, and the careless words he flung on this side and that as he pushed through the crowd, seemed in a trice to clear the air and lift the depression. Not even Arthur could have carried the thing through more easily or more flamboyantly. And that was saying much.

“Make way! Make way, if you please, gentlemen!” he cried, his face ruddy with the sharp, wintry air. “Let me in, please! Now, if you want to be paid, you must let the money come through! Plenty of money! Plenty for all of you, gentlemen, and more where this comes from! But you must let me get by! Hallo, Rawlins, is that you? You’re good at dead weights. Here, lift it! What do you make of it?” And he thrust the bag he carried into a stout farmer’s hands.

“Well, it be pretty near fifty pund, I’d say,” Rawlins replied. “Though, by gum, it don’t look within a third of it, Mr. Clement.”

Clement laughed. “Well done!” he said. “You’re just about right. And you can say after this, Rawlins, that you’ve lifted fifty pound weight of gold! Now, make way, gentlemen, make way, if you please. There’s more to come in! Plenty more.”