r of Lucas & Co. watched nervously, the
former now and then running his fingers through his sparse hair; the
assistant manager at intervals retired to a back room where he consulted
a decanter and a tall glass. Frequently he summoned the bookkeeper.
"How's the money lasting?" he would inquire almost in a whisper, and the
other answered, "Still holding out."

But now the assistant manager saw that the cash on hand was almost
exhausted. He was afraid to ask the bookkeeper any more questions.

"Where the devil's Sherman?" he snapped at the cashier. That official
started. "Why--er--how should I know?... He was hunting Major Snyder
this morning. He had a check from Hammond, the collector of the port."

"Damnation!" cried the assistant manager. "Sherman ought to be here. He
ought to talk to these people. They think he's skipped."

He broke off hurriedly as the assistant teller came up trembling. "We'll
have to close in ten minutes," he said. "There's less than $500 left."
His mouth twitched. "I don't know what we'll do, sir, when the time
comes ... and God only knows what they'll do."

"Good God! what's that?"

Some new commotion was apparent at the entrance of the bank. The
assistant teller grasped his pistol. The line of waiting men and women
turned, for the moment forgetting their quest. William Sherman, attended
by two armed constables, entered the door. Between them the trio carried
two large canvas bags, each bearing the imprint of the United
States Treasury.

Sherman halted just inside the door.

"Forty thousand in gold, boys," he cried, "and plenty more where it came
from. Turner, Lucas & Co. honors every draft."

His face pressed eagerly against the lattice of the paying teller's cage
stood a little Frenchman. His hat had fallen from his pomaded hair; his
waxed moustache bristled.

"Do you mean you have ze monnaie? All ze monnaie zat we wish?" he asked
gesticulating excitedly with his hands.

"Sure," returned the teller. Sherman and his aids were carrying the two
sacks into the back of the cage, depositing them on a marble shelf.
"See!" The teller turned one over and a tinkling flood of shining golden
disks poured forth.

"Ah, bon! bon!" shrieked the little Frenchman, dancing up and down upon
his high-heeled boots. "If you have ze monnaie, zen I do not want heem."
He broke out of the line, happily humming a chanson. Half a dozen
people laughed.

"That's what I say," shouted other voices. "We don't wan