Rodd confirmed the account, fluttered a packet of notes, counted them thrice and slowly, and tossed them to Mr. Meredith. “I make them right,” he said, “but you’d better count them.” Then, to one or two who were muttering something about illegal preference, “Bless your innocent hearts,” he said, “you’ll all be paid!” And he took the next in order as if nothing had happened. It had its effect, and so had a thing that half an hour later broke the dreary monotony of paying out. A man at the back who had just pressed in—for the crowd, reinforced by new arrivals, was very nearly as large as at the hour of opening—raised his voice, complaining bitterly that he could not stay there all day, and that he wanted to pay in some money and go about his business. There was a stir of surprise. A dozen turned to look at him. “Good lord!” someone exclaimed. Only Rodd was unmoved. “Get a pay slip,” he said to the senior clerk, who had been pretty well employed filling in cheques for the illiterate and examining notes. “Now, gentlemen, fair play. Let his pass through. Oh, it’s Mr. Walker, is it? How much, Mr. Walker?” “Two seven six, ten,” said Mr. Walker, laying a heavy canvas bag on the counter. Rodd untied the neck of the bag and upset the contents, notes and gold, before him. He counted the money with professional deftness, whilst the clerk filled in the slip. “How’s your brother?” he asked. “Pretty tidy.” “And how are things in Wolverhampton?” “So, so! But not so bad as they were.” “Thank you. You’re the only sensible man I’ve seen to-day, and we shall not forget it. Now, gentlemen, next please.” Mr. Walker was closely inspected as he pushed his way out, and one or two were tempted to say a word of warning to him, but thought better of it, and held their peace. About two in the afternoon a Mr. Hope of Bretton again broke the chain of withdrawals. He paid in two hundred. Him a man did pluck by the sleeve, muttering “Have a care, man! Have a care what you’re doing!” But Mr. Hope, a bluff tradesman-looking person only answered, “Thank ye, but I am up to snuff. If you ask me I think you’re a silly set of fools.” News of him and of what he had said, and indeed of much more than he had said, ran quickly through the crowd that wondered and waited all day before the bank; that snapped up every rumor, and devoured the wildest inventions. The bank would close at one! It would close at three—the speaker had it on the best authority! It would close when so and so had been paid! Ovington, the rascal, had fled. He was in the bank, white as a sheet. He had attempted suicide. There was a warrant out for him. The crowd moved hither and thither, like the colors in a kaleidoscope. On its outer edges there was horseplay. Children chased one another up and down the Butter Cross steps, fell over the old women who knitted, were cuffed by the men, driven out by the Beadle—only to return again.