CHAPTER XIII THE CRASH The first to see the blue letters was a milkman driving his wagon into town. At first he thought it some advertisement such as was often posted in conspicuous places, and wondered a little to see it where it was. Then, as he drew near enough to read it, he nearly fell over among his cans, while his hair seemed rising on his head. He was one of those who had taken his money from the National and deposited it in Grey’s Bank, where there were now nearly one hundred and fifty dollars. Not a large sum, but representing a great deal to him—a new range his wife had set her heart upon, and his winter’s coal; a new overcoat for Johnny, and one for himself, and so on. The whole list came up before him as his lips formed the words, “This bank closed,” but gave no sound. Men have lost their thousands and never felt it more keenly than the milkman, who did not notice that his horse had started on, thinking he had been long enough in one place. The first stop was near by, and as the maid came out with her bowl the milkman said to her with long-drawn breaths: “Grey’s Bank has busted! Got anything in it?” In a moment the bowl, milk and all, were on the walk, and the girl was staring open-mouthed across the street at the placard on the door. “Failed! Burst! and my money gone! It can’t be,” and she began to cry, while the milkman drove on, carrying the news with him, until every house on his beat knew it, and half-dressed men, and women, too, were in the street, hurrying towards the bank, as they had done on the morning of the great run. The cashier, who boarded near by and had just risen, was pounced upon to tell what he knew. He knew nothing, except that funds were rather low, as they had been several times when the bank had righted again. “Good heavens! I ain’t to blame,” he said to the excited crowd, which looked as if about to lay violent hands on him. “I can’t help it. I didn’t know it,” and he started for the street, putting on his coat as he ran. By this time there was quite a crowd of people around the bank, reading the notice and giving vent to their feelings as they read. “Let us in,” some said to the cashier; but he knew better than that, and shook his head. “I haven’t the key. Wait for the boss,” he said. “Where is he? Where’s Grey? Call him up. We want to know what he has to say for himself,” was heard on every side, while two or three rushed to a store near by, where there was a telephone, each trying to reach it first. “Leave it to me,” the cashier said, and the Central was rung up and “Grey at his house” called for, while “Halloo!” soon came in response, in Louie’s voice. “I want your father,” the cashier screamed in his excitement, and Louie replied: “He is not here. We don’t know where he is. What is the matter?” “The bank is closed—failed! Where can he be?” was shouted, but Louie didn’t answer.