“No, they’re harmless. They’re chained. They wouldn’t lose their place in line even for me.” John Bagsbury likes to tell the story of that day, and of the next; but he says nothing of the half hour that followed Pickering’s visit: he has almost forgotten it himself. Only by his utmost effort had he controlled himself while Pickering was in his office, for the cries from the street maddened him. He knew that Dawson was right, that to lose control of himself was to lose the fight, and he struggled desperately to keep himself in hand. But when the door was shut, and he was alone, and when, a moment later, he heard the derisive cheer which greeted the reappearance of Pickering on the front steps, his anger mastered him. He tried to make himself think. He must discover some way of reassuring those people in the street, of stopping this run before it drained him dry, of meeting the balance there would be against him at the clearing house; but his rage befogged his mind, his faculties were numb, and all he knew was the longing to have Melville Sponley under his hands for--for just one minute. He would not admit it now, if you were to ask him; yet it is true that when he turned his back on the old desk and bowed his head, he told himself that there was no more use fighting; he confessed that he was beaten. Then there came a knock at the door and some one said,-- “Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Meredith would like to see you, Mr. Bagsbury.” When the two old trustees entered the office, they saw the only John Bagsbury that they or anybody else had ever seen in his office,--the courteous, patient, quick-witted, even-minded John Bagsbury whom everybody but these same trustees knew to be the best banker in the city. “This is outrageous,” said Mr. Cartwright, and his voice shook. Poor Mr. Meredith’s would not come at all, though his lips moved in tremulous imitation of his principal’s. “Mr. Dawson said something to the same effect when he was here a couple of hours ago,” said John. “I agree with both of you.” “I suppose you wish to see me on a matter of personal business, gentlemen,” he added, and closed the door. Half an hour later he opened it and spoke to the telephone boy. He did not speak very loudly, but his voice carried to the farthest corner of the big noisy room. “Will you call up Mr. Moffat, I wish to speak with him.” CHAPTER XVIII HOW THEY BROKE THE RUN