Part 6 (1/2)

”That's only a Yankee motto--you needn't take it as personal, Vaniman.

I have turned over to you the running of the bank. I say to all that you're running it. You ought to feel pretty well set up!”

”I obey your orders, sir,” returned the cas.h.i.+er, not warming.

”That's all right for an understanding between us two. But I let the public think you're the whole thing. I tell 'em I've got full confidence in you. You don't want the public to think you're only a rubber stamp, do you?”

”The general opinion right now seems to be that I'm either a first-cla.s.s liar or Shylock sentenced to a second term on earth,” retorted Vaniman, with bitterness.

There was a long silence in the room, where the early dusk was deepening. The two men regarded each other with expressions that did not soften.

After a time Britt turned to his desk, unlocked a compartment, and produced a letter, which he unfolded slowly, again staring hard at the cas.h.i.+er.

”Speaking of being sentenced!” There was something ominous in his drawl.

”You told me a whole lot about yourself, Vaniman, when I was talking of hiring you. But there was one important thing you didn't mention--mighty important, seeing that you wanted a job as boss of a bank.” He tapped the open letter. ”I've had this letter for a good many weeks, not saying anything about it to you or anybody else. I'm not sure just why I'm saying anything now.”

Vaniman flushed. His face worked with emotion. He put up his hand and started to speak, but Britt put up a more compelling hand and went on.

”I reckon I'm bringing this matter up so that you'll know just where you stand--so that you'll mind your eye and look out for my interests in every way from now on--so that--” He hesitated a moment. His eyes flamed. ”So that you'll know your place! That's it! Know your place--and be mighty careful how you go against me in anything--anything where I'm interested.” Britt had whipped himself into anger. That anger, fanned by a flame of jealousy after it had been touched off by his inspection of youth and good looks, had carried Mr. Britt far. He shook the letter at the young man. ”There's a reliable name signed to this letter; he is a friend of mine, one of the big financiers in the city, and this was in the way of friendly warning.”

”I understand, Mr. Britt.” The cas.h.i.+er had recovered his self-possession. ”You are warned that my father was sentenced to the penitentiary for embezzlement. No, I did not mention that to you. It concerned a man who is dead. It has nothing to do with my honesty.”

”Well, there's another motto about 'blood will tell,'” sneered Britt.

Vaniman stepped forward, honestly indignant, manfully resolute. ”Let me tell you, sir, that the letter you hold there--no matter who wrote it--concerns a _good_ man who is dead. He was the scapegoat of one of those big financiers.” Vaniman's lip curled. ”My father was railroaded to jail on a track greased with lies--and died because the heart had been ripped out of him and--”

”Hold on! It won't get us anywhere to try that case all over, Vaniman.

Let the letter stand as it is--it was probably meant in the right spirit. But I didn't write it. You and I better not fight over it. I've shown, by laying it away and saying nothing, that I have a decent nature in me. I hope I'll never have any need to take it out of this desk again.” He turned and shoved the paper back and locked the compartment.

”I think it is best for me to resign, Mr. Britt.”

”Don't be a fool, young man. Now that this thing is off our minds there's a better understanding between us than ever. I don't think--I hope”--he surveyed Vaniman with leisure in which there was the suggestion of a threat--”I'll never have any occasion to take that letter out again. Er--ah--” Britt joggled a watch charm and inquired, casually, ”Would you plan on getting married if I boost your wages a little?”

In spite of an effort to control himself under Britt's basilisk stare, Vaniman showed how much the query had jumped him.

”Of course, a chap like you has had his sweetheart down in the city,”

pursued the inquisitor when the young man failed to answer. ”Must be one there now.”

”I have no sweetheart in the city, Mr. Britt.”

Then there was a longer silence in the room. The cas.h.i.+er was not enduring inspection with an air that did credit to his promise to keep a secret. Britt had made a breach in the wall of Vaniman's mental defense by the means of that letter and its implied accusation; Britt was taking advantage of that breach. Right then the young man was in a mood that would have prompted him to fling the truth and his defiance at Britt if the latter had kept on to the logical conclusion of his interrogation and had asked whether there was a sweetheart elsewhere; Vaniman had the feeling that by denying his love at that moment--to that man of all others--he would be dealing insult to Vona Harnden, as well as taking from her the protection that his affection gave her.

The attention of Britt was diverted from the quarry he was pursuing.

Outside Britt Block, Prophet Elias raised his voice in his regular ”vesper service.” It was his practice, on his way to Usial Britt's cottage from his daily domiciliary visits, to halt in front of the bank and deliver a few texts. The first one--and the two men in the office listened--was of the general tenor of those addressed to ”Pharaoh.”

Said the Prophet, in resounding tones, ”'As a roaring lion and a ranging bear, so is a wicked ruler over the poor people.'”

”Vaniman, go out and tell that old hoot owl to move on! I'm in a dangerous frame of mind to-day.” Britt's lips were pulled tightly against his yellow teeth.