"The Bank was my father's show," he said. "He made it, and left it to me
to carry on. And I shall--to the best of my ability."

With that capacity for dogged grind which distinguished him, he tried to
render himself efficient, working early and late like any clerk.

It was a well-nigh hopeless task. Jim Silver's head was sound if slow;
but he had no aptitude for figures.

"I'm worth two pound a week in the open market," he told his old
house-master. "And I'm supposed to be bossing--that." And he brandished
the latest report of the Bank of which he was nominal chairman.

Notwithstanding obvious differences in many ways, Jim inherited some of
his father's characteristics.

Brazil Silver, in spite of his success, had always remained in his
personal life the simple farmer's son. Indeed, it was said in the City
that he never owned a dress-suit, and that when he had to attend City
banquets he hired his butler's.

When he died he left behind him none of the usual encumbrances. Original
in his private life as in finance, he had steadfastly refused to go the
way of the world. He had never bought a great place in the country or a
big house in town. He had never taken a Scotch moor or a river in
Norway. In London he had a plain but perfectly appointed flat; and
sometimes in the summer he took a house on the river or at St. Helen's.

In these respects Jim followed faithfully in the steps of his father.

He kept on the flat in town, worked in the City all the day, and spent
much time of evenings at the Eton Mission in Hackney Wick.

One small extravagance he attempted: he tried to buy from old Sir Evelyn
the farm on which his fathers had lived and died for generations.

The old gentleman, who would sooner have parted from his soul than from
an acre of his inheritance, refused to sell.

"I suppose the boy'll cut up rough now," grumbled the old baronet, who
was fond of Jim.

"Oh, no, he won't, grandfather," replied his grandson. "He's awfully
decent."

"We shall see," mumbled the old man; but he had shortly to admit that
Billy was right.

Jim Silver, thwarted in his desire to acquire his grandfather's farm,
rented a little hunting-box near by instead. There he kept his
weight-carriers, and there during the hunting season he spent his
week-ends and occasional holidays.

Since the days when he walked his grand-dad's farm as a child, his
ambitions had changed in degree but not in kind. Then he had proposed to
devote