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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Peter, by F. Hopkinson Smith This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Peter A Novel of Which He is Not the Hero Author: F. Hopkinson Smith Release Date: October, 2003 [Etext #4516] Posting Date: January 14, 2010 Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PETER *** Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team PETER A Novel of Which He is Not the Hero By F. Hopkinson Smith CHAPTER I Peter was still poring over his ledger one dark afternoon in December, his bald head glistening like a huge ostrich egg under the flare of the overhead gas jets, when Patrick, the night watchman, catching sight of my face peering through the outer grating, opened the door of the Bank. The sight so late in the day was an unusual one, for in all the years that I have called at the Bank--ten, now--no, eleven since we first knew each other--Peter had seldom failed to be ready for our walk uptown when the old moon-faced clock high up on the wall above the stove pointed at four. "I thought there was something up!" I cried. "What is it, Peter--balance wrong?" He did not answer, only waved his hand in reply, his bushy gray eyebrows moving slowly, like two shutters that opened and closed, as he scanned the lines of figures up and down, his long pen gripped tight between his thin, straight lips, as a dog carries a bone. I never interrupt him when his brain is nosing about like this; it is better to keep still and let him ferret it out. So I sat down outside the curved rail with its wooden slats backed by faded green curtains, close to the big stove screened off at the end of the long room, fixed one eye on the moon-face and the other on the ostrich egg, and waited. There are no such banks at the present time--were no others then, and this story begins not so very many years' ago--A queer, out-of-date, mouldy old barn of a bank, you would say, this Exeter--for an institution wielding its influence. Not a coat of paint for half a century; not a brushful of whitewash for goodness knows how much longer. As for the floor, it still showed the gullies and gr
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