drew Sherman aside. "What do you think of the prospect?" he
asked. "Few of us can stand a run. We're perfectly solvent, but if this
excitement spreads it means ruin for the house--for every bank in
town perhaps."

"Haight's drunk," said Sherman tersely. "Page is silly with fear. I went
over to help them ... but it's no use. They're gone."

King's bearded face was pale, but his eyes were steady. "I'm sorry," he
said, "that makes it harder for us all." He smiled mirthlessly. "You're
better off than we ... with our country branches. If anything goes wrong
here, our agents will be blamed. There may be bloodshed even." He held
out his hand and Sherman gripped it. "Good luck," the latter said,
"we'll stand together, far as possible."

As Sherman left the second counting house, he noted how the line had
grown before the paying teller's window. It extended now outside the
door. At Palmer, Cook & Company's and Naglee's banks it was the same.
The human queue, which issued from the doors of Page, Bacon & Company,
now reached around the corner. It was growing turbulent. Women tried to
force themselves between the close-packed file and were repelled. One of
these was Sherman's washwoman. She clutched his coat-tails as he
hurried by.

"My God, sir!" she wailed, "they've my money; the savings of years. And
now they say it's gone ... that Haight's gambled ... spent it on
women ..."

Sherman tried to quiet her and was beset by others. "How's your bank?"
people shouted at him. "How's Lucas-Turner?"

"Sound as a dollar," he told them; "come and get your money when you
please; it's there waiting for you."

But his heart was heavy with foreboding as he entered his own bank. Here
the line was somewhat shorter than at most of the others, but still
sufficiently long to cause dismay. Sherman passed behind the counter and
conferred with his assistant.

"We close in half an hour--at three o'clock," he said. "That will give
us a breathing spell. Tomorrow comes the test. By then the town will
know of Page-Bacon's failure ..."

He beckoned to the head accountant, who came hurriedly, a quill pen
bobbing behind his ear, his tall figure bent from stooping over ledgers.

"How much will we require to withstand a day's run?" Sherman flung the
question at him like a thunderbolt. And almost as though the impact of
some verbal missile had deprived him of speech, the man stopped,
stammering.

"I--I--I think, s-s-sir," he gulped and recovered hi