Ten o'clock on the following morning. Hundreds of people lined up before the doors of San Francisco banks. Men of all classes; top-hatted merchants rubbed elbows with red-shirted miners, Irish laborers smoking clay pipes, Mexican vaqueros, roustabouts from the docks, gamblers, bartenders, lawyers, doctors, politicians. Here and there one saw women with children in their arms or holding them by the hand. They pressed shoulder to shoulder. Those at the head had their noses almost against the glass. Inside of the counting houses men with pale, harried faces stood behind their grilled iron wickets, wondering how long the pile of silver and gold within their reach would stay that clamorous human tide. Doors swung back and it swept in, a great wave, almost overturning the janitors. The cashier and assistant manager of Lucas & Co. watched nervously, the former now and then running his fingers through his sparse hair; the assistant manager at intervals retired to a back room where he consulted a decanter and a tall glass. Frequently he summoned the bookkeeper. "How's the money lasting?" he would inquire almost in a whisper, and the other answered, "Still holding out." But now the assistant manager saw that the cash on hand was almost exhausted. He was afraid to ask the bookkeeper any more questions. "Where the devil's Sherman?" he snapped at the cashier. That official started. "Why--er--how should I know?... He was hunting Major Snyder this morning. He had a check from Hammond, the collector of the port." "Damnation!" cried the assistant manager. "Sherman ought to be here. He ought to talk to these people. They think he's skipped." He broke off hurriedly as the assistant teller came up trembling. "We'll have to close in ten minutes," he said. "There's less than $500 left." His mouth twitched. "I don't know what we'll do, sir, when the time comes ... and God only knows what they'll do." "Good God! what's that?" Some new commotion was apparent at the entrance of the bank. The assistant teller grasped his pistol. The line of waiting men and women turned, for the moment forgetting their quest. William Sherman, attended by two armed constables, entered the door. Between them the trio carried two large canvas bags, each bearing the imprint of the United States Treasury. Sherman halted just inside the door. "Forty thousand in gold, boys," he cried, "and plenty more where it came from. Turner, Lucas & Co. honors every draft." His face pressed eagerly against the lattice of the paying teller's cage stood a little Frenchman. His hat had fallen from his pomaded hair; his waxed moustache bristled. "Do you mean you have ze monnaie? All ze monnaie zat we wish?" he asked gesticulating excitedly with his hands. "Sure," returned the teller. Sherman and his aids were carrying the two sacks into the back of the cage, depositing them on a marble shelf. "See!" The teller turned one over and a tinkling flood of shining golden disks poured forth.