“It doesn’t take but a minute to get a pack of fools together at any given point,” the older man went on. “All the fools aren’t standing in line out there, though,” said John. Dawson turned from the window and looked over the Banker from head to foot, but made no comment on the remark. “I’ve been talking with them out there,” he said, “trying to find out what scared them. There are the wildest lot of yarns you ever heard going up and down that line. I don’t suppose the man who started it told anything very big, either. Those things grow like thistles.” Still the Banker made no reply, but stared moodily at the blotter on his desk. “You’re not demanding thirty days’ notice, are you?” Dawson asked. “You seem to be paying everybody who asks for his money.” “Yes, we might as well suspend entirely as to demand notice at a time like this. The moral effect would be as bad. They’d just keep coming to get their money until they fairly ran us out of business. We can keep this up until the cows come home,” and he nodded toward the window. “This isn’t the worst you’ll get, though,” said Dawson. “Of course nobody but a fool’d be scared by those stories; but there is a story that I’ve heard from three or four sources, that your loans to Pickering are entirely unsecured, and that if he goes down, he’s sure to pull you with him. You wouldn’t think men’d believe a damned lie like that; but they do, and you’re likely to have an awful balance against you at the clearing house.” “I’ve been selling exchange as fast as I could without breaking the market for it. That’ll help square me there.” John rose and walked nervously to the window. “I’d like to take the whole bunch of lies those people have heard and stuff them down the throat they first came out of--by God, I should!” “So would I,” said Dawson, quietly. “But look here, John,” it was the first time in years that Dawson had called him by his Christian name, “you can’t afford to get mad yet. Don’t let your bearings get hot until the run’s over. Don’t think about it.” “I remember Sponley said once,” John’s mind had run back, and for an instant he thought of his old friend rather than his new enemy, “he said that to a man who lives as we do, an emotion was a more expensive luxury than a steam yacht. But by--” He checked himself abruptly. “Thank you. Do you suppose the Atlantic can let me have some small currency about closing time? These little accounts are taking all I’ve got.” The old man nodded. “You’re all right. Only keep cool and--well oiled. You can’t waste anything on friction to-day. Good-by.”