It was really a most dreadful storm,
the most dreadful thunderstorm I ever remember." His eye marked where
the light from the expansive windows of the Bank illumined the wet
asphalt pavement. "Landslips frequently occur on newly made tracks,
especially after heavy rain. It's a great risk, a grave risk, this
transporting of gold from one place to another."

"'Evenin', boss. Just a little cheque for twenty quid. I'll take it in
notes."

The men from The Lucky Digger had paused before the brilliantly lighted
building.

"Give him a chance.... Let him explain.... Carn't you see there's a run
on the Bank."

"Looks bad.... Clerks in the street.... All lighted up at this time o'
night.... No money left."

"Say, boss, have they bin an' collared the big safe? Do you want
assistance?"

The Manager turned to take refuge in the Bank, but his tormentors were
relentless.

"Hold on, mate--you're in trouble. Confide in us. If the books won't
balance, what matter? Don't let that disturb your peace of mind. Come
and have a drink.... Take a hand at poker.... First tent over the
bridge, right-hand side."

"It's no go, boys. He's narked because he knows we want an overdraft.
Let 'im go and count his cash."

The Manager pulled himself free from the roisterers and escaped into the
Bank by the side door, and the diggers continued noisily on their way.

The lights of the Bank suddenly went out, and the Manager, after
carefully locking the door behind him, crossed over the street to the
livery stables, where a light burned during the greater part of the
night. In a little box of a room, where harness hung on all the walls,
there reclined on a bare and dusty couch a red-faced man, whose hair
looked as if it had been closely cropped with a pair of horse-clippers.
When he caught sight of the banker, he sat up and exclaimed, "Good God,
Mr. Tomkinson! Ain't you in bed?"

"It's this gold-escort, Manning--it was due at six o'clock."

"Look here." The stable-keeper rose from his seat, placed his hand
lovingly on a trace which hung limply on the wall. "Don't I run the
coach to Beaver Town?--and I guess a coach is a more ticklish thing to
run than a gold-escort. Lord bless your soul, isn't every coach supposed
to arrive before dark? But they don't. 'The road was slippy with
frost--I had to come along easy,' the driver'll say. Or it'll be, 'I
got stuck up by a fresh in the Brown River.' That's it. I know. But they
always arrive, sometime or