It wanted two—it wanted one minute of ten. Rodd gave the order to open. The younger clerk stepped forward and drew the bolts. He turned the key, and opened one leaf of the door. The other was thrust open from without. The clerk slid under the counter to his place. They came in. They came in, three abreast, elbowing and pushing one another in their efforts to be first. In a moment they were at the counter, darting suspicious glances at the clerks and angry looks at one another, and with them entered an atmosphere of noise and contention, of trampling feet and peevish exclamations. The bank, so still a moment before, was filled with clamor. There were tradesmen among them, a little uncertain of themselves and thankful that Ovington was not visible, and one or two bluff red-faced farmers who cared for nobody, and slapped their books down on the counter; and there were also a few, of the better sort, who looked straight before them and endeavored to see as little as possible—with a sprinkling of small fry, clerks and lodging-house keepers and a coal-hawker, each with his dirty note gripped tight in his fist. The foremost rapped on the counter and cried “Here, Mister, I’m first!” “No, I!” “Here, you, please attend to me!” They pressed their claims rudely, while those in the rear uttered impatient remonstrances, holding their books or their notes over the heads of others in the attempt to gain attention. In a moment the bank was full—full to the doors, full of people, full of noise. Rodd’s cold eye travelled over them, measured them, weighed them. He was filled with an immense contempt for them, for their folly, their greed, their selfishness. He raised his hand for silence. “This is not a cock-fight,” he said in a tone as withering as his eye. “This is a bank. When you gentlemen have settled who comes first. I will attend to you.” And then, as the noise only broke out afresh and more loudly, “Well, suppose I begin at the left hand,” he said. He passed to that end of the counter. “Now, Mr. Buffery, what can I do for you. Got your book?” But Mr. Buffery had not got his book, as Rodd had noticed. On that the cashier slowly drew from a shelf below the counter a large ledger, and, turning the leaves, began a methodical search for the account. But this was too much for the patience of the man last on the right, who saw six before him, and had left no one to take care of his shop. “But, see here,” he cried imperiously. “Mr. Rodd, I’m in a hurry! If that young man at the desk could attend to me I shouldn’t take long.” Rodd, keeping his place in the book with his finger, looked at him. “Do you want to pay in, Mr. Bevan?” he asked gravely. “No. I want forty-two, seven, ten. Here’s my cheque.” “You want cash?” “That’s it.”