farm-folk stampeded,
struggling to get their noses against the iron railing and to blow
their breath on the weary-looking teller. A heap of germ-laden money
lay temptingly within reach of the rustics, only separated from those
grimy, grasping fingernails by plate glass.

A shudder passed over Evan as he took his stand in front of the crowd.
He felt something of what a martyr must feel who faces trial at the
hands of a mob. It was market-day. The Banfield bank had made a
practice of cashing the tickets of hucksters who came from Toronto and
bought up the people's produce on a margin. These tickets had to be
figured up by the teller, cashed and afterwards balanced. Many of the
customers made small deposits, after blocking the way to leaf over
their money with badly soiled fingers (surely they needn't have been
quite so dirty!); bought money-orders, opened new accounts "in trust"
for relatives, asked questions--did everything thinkable to harass the
teller.

Besides the produce tickets there was the ordinary banking business of
the day. Occasionally a regular customer came in to cash a cheque, and
finding himself unable to get near the wicket went out in considerable
of a rage, trying to slam the automatically-closing door. Evan was
supposed to keep his eye open for these "regulars," but to-day his head
swam and he was obliged to concentrate on the tickets to avoid
mistakes. An error on his part might easily involve him in personal
loss; but if he "made" anything on the cash, that went to Cash Over
Account.

A loud voice was heard in the manager's office.

"I won't stand for it," said the voice. "If you can't wait on me ahead
of these old women you can do without my business."

"Give me your cheque, Mr. Moore, I'll have it cashed for you," said Mr.
Jones, conciliatingly.

"No, sir, if I can't----"

The manager, more than half ill, lost his temper.

"Go then and be ----!" he shouted, and left his office to the burly
intruder.

Moore shouted after the manager, making sure every gossip in the office
would hear:

"I'll report you! I'll report you--you're no kind of a manager, and
I'll have you kicked out of here."

Storming, the big farmer strode from the bank. Henty, the husky
junior, was red in the face. Evan looked at him and smiled.

"What's the matter, A. P.?"

"I was just spoiling for the fray," said Henty, comically; "another
minute and I'd have thrown that yap out."

After office hours