"Well, Follett, I suppose you know what I’ve got to say?" Follett betrayed the fact that he did know. "Is it the same as you said two years ago, sir?" Thus challenged, the Presence lifted itself, becoming to the full Bradley Collingham, the distinguished banker, philanthropist, and American citizen, so widely and favorably known for his sympathetic personality. The essence of these traits rang in the appealing quality of his tone. "What do you think, Follett? I told you then that you were not earning your salary. You haven’t been earning it since. What can I do?" "I could work harder, sir. I could stay overtime, when none of the young fellows want to." "That wouldn’t do any good, Follett. It isn’t the way we do business." "I’ve been five years with you, sir, and all my life between one banking house and another, in this country and Canada. In my humble way I’ve helped to build the banking business up." "And you’ve been paid, haven’t you? I really don’t see that you’ve anything to complain of." There was no severity in this response. It was made only because the necessities of the case required it, as Follett had the justice to perceive. "I’m not complaining, sir. I only don’t see how I’m going to live." The voice already distressed became more so. "But that isn’t my affair, is it, now? I’m running a business, not a charitable institution. It isn’t as if you’d been with us twenty or thirty years. You’ve shifted about a good deal in your time——" "I’ve had to better myself, sir—with a family." "Quite so. And once you admit any principle but that of supply and demand business methods are at an end. Don’t think that this isn’t as hard for me as it is for you, Follett, but——" "If it was as hard for you as it is for me, sir, you’d——" But, the possibilities here being dangerous, the banker was forced to cut in: "Besides, you’ll get another job. Stairs will write you any kind of recommendation you ask for." "Recommendations won’t do me any good, sir, once I’m fired for old age. That’s a worse brand on you than coming out of jail." The discussion growing painful, the banker rose to put an end to it. Even so, he had something still to say to justify himself. "It isn’t as if I hadn’t warned you of this, Follett. You’ve had two years in which"—it was hard to find the right phrase—"in which to provide for your future." The clerk was unable to repress a dim, faraway smile. "Two years in which to provide for my future—on forty-five a week! And me with five mouths to feed, to say nothing of Teddy, who pays his board!" The banker found an opening. "I made a place for him—didn’t I, now?—as soon as he was released from the navy. He ought to be able to help you." "He does help, sir, as far as a young fellow can on eighteen a week with his own expenses to take care of. But I’ve two little girls still at school, and another, my eldest—"