By the time, however, that Oliver had reached the bank the Colonel had left for the club, where he would have been too happy, no doubt--being the most courteous of colonels, etc., etc.--"if his dear young friend had only sent him word," etc. All this our breathless young Mercury--Oliver never walked when he could run--learned some hours later from old Mr. Stiger, the cashier, who punched him in the ribs at the end of every sentence in which he conveyed the disappointing information, calling him "Creeps," at short intervals, and roaring with laughter at the boy's account of the causes leading up to his missing the Colonel. "Gone to the club, Creeps, don't I tell you (--punch in the ribs--); gone to get a little sip of Madeira and a little bit of woodcock (--punch over the heart--), and a little--oh, I tell you, you young dog--" (this punch straight on the breast-bone)--"you ought to be a bank director--you hear!--a big fat bank director, and own a big house up in the Square, if you want to enjoy yourself--and have a pretty daughter--Oh, you young rascal!" This last punch bent Oliver double, and was followed by an outburst of uncontrollable laughter from Stiger. These same punchings and outbursts had gone on since the days that Oliver was in short trousers and Stiger was superintendent of the Sunday-school which the boy had attended in his early years--Stiger was still superintendent and of the same school: cashiers had to have certificates of character in those days. A smooth-shaven, round-headed old fellow was Stiger, with two little dabs of side-whiskers, a pair of eyes that twinkled behind a pair of gold spectacles, and a bald head kept polished by the constant mopping of a red silk handkerchief. His costume in the bank was a black alpaca coat and high black satin stock, which grabbed him tight around the neck, and held in place the two points of his white collar struggling to be free. Across his waist-line was a square of cloth. This, in summer, replaced his waistcoat, and, in winter, protected it from being rubbed into holes by constant contact with the edge of the counter. His intimacy with Oliver dated from one hot Sunday morning years before, when Oliver had broken in upon the old gentleman's long prayers by sundry scrapings of his finger-nails down the whitewashed wall of the school-room, producing a blood-cooling and most irreverent sound, much to the discomfort of the worshippers. "Who made that noise?" asked Mr. Stiger, when the amen was reached. "Me, sir." "What for?" "To get cool. It makes creeps go down my back." From that day the old cashier had never called Oliver anything but "Creeps."