in the direction of the Surrey hills? And
how, when returning, and when there was a prospect of the Bank, where the
money was to be paid in, being shut? Supposing that he was a minute
behind his time, would the Bank-doors remain open, in expectation of him?
And if the money was not paid in, what would be thought? What would be
thought at Boyne's, if, the next day, he was late in making his
appearance?

"Holloa! Hackbut, how's this?"--"I'm a bit late, sir, morning."--"Late!
you were late yesterday evening, weren't you?"--"Why, sir, the way the
clerks at that Bank of Mortimer and Pennycuick's rush away from business
and close the doors after 'em, as if their day began at four p.m., and
business was botheration: it's a disgrace to the City o' London. And I
beg pardon for being late, but never sleeping a wink all night for fear
about this money, I am late this morning, I humbly confess. When I got to
the Bank, the doors were shut. Our clock's correct; that I know. My
belief, sir, is, the clerks at Mortimer and Pennycuick's put on the
time."--"Oh! we must have this inquired into."

Anthony dramatized the farcical scene which he imagined between himself
and Mr. Sequin, the head clerk at Boyne's, with immense relish; and
terminated it by establishing his reputation for honesty higher than ever
at the Bank, after which violent exercise of his fancy, the old man sank
into a dulness during several days. The farmer slept at his lodgings for
one night, and talked of money, and of selling his farm; and half hinted
that it would be a brotherly proceeding on Anthony's part to buy it, and
hold it, so as to keep it in the family. The farmer's deep belief in the
existence of his hoards always did Anthony peculiar mischief. Anthony
grew conscious of a giddiness, and all the next day he was scarcely fit
for his work. But the day following that he was calm and attentive. Two
bags of gold were placed in his hands, and he walked with caution down
the steps of the Bank, turned the corner, and went straight on to the
West, never once hesitating, or casting a thought behind upon Mortimer
and Pennycuick's. He had not, in truth, one that was loose to be cast.
All his thoughts were boiling in his head, obfuscating him with a
prodigious steam, through which he beheld the city surging, and the
streets curving like lines in water, and the people mixing and passing
into and out of one another in an astonishing manner--no face
distinguishable; the whol