There was a run on the Sandhill and District Bank. It had lasted the whole of one day, and had shown no signs of abating in the evening. If it lasted another day! Old Mr. Bradshaw wiped his brow. It had come just at the awkwardest time – just after the farmers had got their usual loans, just when securities were hard to realize; in fact, just at the moment when the bank, though in reality solvent, was emphatically not in a position in answer a long-continued demand for payment on the spot. Mr. Bradshaw groaned out all these distressing facts to his son Dick. It was, indeed, no use talking to Dick, for he took no interest in business, and had spent the day in a boat with the Flirtington girls; still, Mr. Bradshaw was bound to talk to someone.

“We shall have to put the shutters up. One day’s grace would save us, I believe; we could get the money then. But if they’re at us again to-morrow morning, we can’t last two hours.”

Dick sympathized, but had nothing to suggest, except that it would not make matters worse if he carried out his engagement to go to the circus with the Flirtington girls.

“Oh, go to h – ll with the Flirtington girls, if you like,” groaned Mr. Bradshaw.

So Dick went – to the circus (the other expedition, as he observed, would keep), and enjoyed the performance very much, especially the lion-taming, which was magnificent, and so impressed Dick that he deserted his companions, went behind the scenes, and insisted on standing Signor Philippini several glasses.

“Is that big chap quite safe?” he asked admiringly.

“I can do anythink with ’im,” said the signor (whose English was naturally defective); “but with anyone helse ’e’s a roarer, ’e is, and no mistake.”

After the performance Dick took the Flirtington girls home; then, with a thoughtful look on his face, he went and had some talk with his father, and came away, carefully placing a roll of notes in his breast pocket. Then he sought Signor Philippini’s society once more. And that’s all that is really known about it – if, that is, we discard the obviously fanciful statement of Fanny Flirtington that, as she was gazing at the moon about 2 A. M., she saw a heavy wagon, drawn by two horses and driven by Signor Philippini, pass along the street in the direction of the bank. She must have been wrong; for Philippini, by the evidence of his signora (whose name, notwithstanding that Philippini’s morals were perfectly correct, was Mrs. Buggins), went to bed at 11.30, and snored like a pig all night.

However these things may be, this is what happened next morning. When the first of the depositors arrived at 7 A. M., they found one of the windows of the bank smashed to pieces and the shutter hanging loose. A cry went up that there had been a robbery, and one or two men began to climb in. They did not get far before a fearful roar proceeded from the neighborhood of the counter. They looked at one another, and said it would be more regular to wait for the officials. The roars continued. They sent for Mr. Bradshaw. Hardly had he arrived (accompanied by Dick, breathless and in shirt-sleeves) before the backmost rows of the now considerable crowd became agitated with a new sensation. The news spread rapidly. Frantic men ran to and fro; several ladies fainted; the circus-proprietor was sent for. A lion had escaped from the menagerie, and was supposed to be at large in the town!

“Send for Philippini!” cried the proprietor. They did so. Philippini had started early for a picnic in the country, and would not return till just before the performance in the evening. The proprietor was in despair.

“Where’s the beast gone to?” he cried.

A roar from the bank answered his question.

“Well, I’m blowed if he’s not in the bank!” exclaimed the proprietor.

It certainly appeared to be the fact that Atlas (that was the lion’s name) had taken refuge in the bank, and was in full possession of the premises and assets. Under these circumstances there was, Mr. Bradshaw explained, a difficulty in resuming cash payments; but if his checks would be accepted – The crowd roared almost as loud as Atlas at such an idea. Something must be done. They sent for the mayor; he repudiated liability. They sent for the fire brigade and the lifeboat crew; neither would come. They got guns, and peppered the furniture. Atlas retired behind the fireproof safe and roared worse than ever. Meanwhile the precious hours were passing. Mr. Bradshaw’s money was also on its way from London. At last Dick took a noble resolution.

“I will go in at any cost,” he cried, and, in spite of Fanny Flirtington’s tears, he scaled the window and disappeared from view. The crowd waited to hear Atlas scrunching; but he only roared. When Dick was inside, he paused and asked in a low voice: “Is he chained?”

“Yes,” answered Signor Philippini from behind the safe. “Is the Aunt Sally business over?” and he came out with a long pole in his hand. He used the pole to stir poor Atlas up when the roars became deficient in quantity and quality.

“The money ought to be here in three hours,” said Dick. “Have you got the back-door key?”

Philippini reassured him. Then Dick took a wild running leap at the window; Philippini stirred up Atlas, who roared lustily. Dick escaped with his life, and landed, a breathless heap, at the mayor’s feet. The mayor raised him, and said he should write to Her Majesty, and suggest that Dick would be a proper recipient of the Albert Medal, and the vicar (who had no money in the bank) indignantly asked the crowd if they could not trust a family which produced scions like that. Several people cried “Hear, hear!” and told Mr. Bradshaw that they never really meant to withdraw their deposits. Mr. Bradshaw thanked them, and looked at his watch.

At half-past three Philippini ran up; he also was breathless, and his shoes were dusty from walking in the country. At once he effected an entry, amid a scene of great excitement. A moment later he appeared at the window and cried in a terror-stricken voice:

“I can’t ’old ’im! I can’t ’old ’im! ’E’s mad! Look out for yourselves!” and he leaped from the window.

The crowd fled in all directions, and two boys were all but run over by a cart which was being driven rapidly from the railway station to the bank.

“All right,” said Dick to the signor; “bring up the wagon.” And then, with great difficulty and consummate courage, the signor and Dick brought an iron cage up to the window, and drove Atlas in. The operation took more than an hour, because they had to feed Atlas and drink a bottle of champagne themselves before they set about it. So that it was six o’clock before Atlas was out, and the money was in, and the Sandhill and District Bank opened its doors for business.

“We gained just the time we needed,” said Mr. Bradshaw. “It was dirt-cheap at fifty pounds!”

And Dick, although he did not get the Albert Medal, was taken into partnership, and married Fanny Flirtington. It was the only way of preventing her seeing things she was not meant to see out of the window at 2 A. M. and chattering about them in public.

A LITTLE JOKE

A day or two before Easter, I was sitting in my office, finishing up some scraps of work, and ever and anon casting happy glances at my portmanteau, which stood in the corner. I was just off to spend a fortnight with my old friend Colonel Gunton, in Norfolk, and I was looking forward to seeing him again with great pleasure. We had not met for ten years, and I had never been to his place or seen any of his family. It would be delightful.

The telephone bell rang.

“Oh, confound it! I hope that’s nothing to keep me!” I exclaimed; and I rose to see to it.

“Mr. Miller? Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I’ll come round.”

A few minutes passed, and then my clerk announced, “A lady to see you, sir.”

A remarkably pretty girl of about eighteen was ushered in. She stood still some way from me till the door was closed. Then she suddenly rushed toward me, fell at my feet, and exclaimed, “You will protect me, won’t you?”

“My dear young lady, what in the world – ”

“You’re the famous Mr. Miller, aren’t you? Mr. Joseph Miller, the philanthropist?”

“My name is Joseph Miller certainly.”

“Ah! Then I am safe;” and she sat down in an armchair, and smiled confidingly at me.

“Madam,” said I sternly, “will you have the goodness to explain to what I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“They told me to come to you.”

“Who?”

“Why, the people at the police station.”

“The police station?”

“Yes, when they let me go – because it was a first offense, you know. They said you always took up cases like mine, and that if I stuck to you I should be well looked after.”

It was quite true that I have taken an interest in rescuing young persons from becoming habitual criminals; but I was hardly prepared for this.

“What have you been doing?”

“Oh, nothing this time – only a bracelet.”

“This time?”

“They didn’t know me up here,” she explained smilingly. “I’ve always practiced in the country. Wasn’t it lucky? But really, Mr. Miller, I’m tired of it; I am indeed. The life is too exciting: the doctors say so; so I’ve come to you.”

The case was a strange one, but I had no time to investigate it now. It wanted only half an hour to the time my train left Liverpool Street.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Sarah Jones.”

“Well, I will have your case looked into. Come and see me again; or, if you are in distress, you may write to me – at Colonel Gunton’s, Beech Hill, Norfolk. I shall be staying there – ”

“Going now?”

“I start in a few minutes.”

“Oh, I’ll come with you.”

“Madam,” I answered, with emphasis, “I will see you – out of the office first.”

“But what am I to do? Oh, it’s nonsense! I shall come. I shall say I belong to you.”

I rang the bell. “Show this lady out, Thomas, at once.”

She laughed, bowed, and went. Evidently a most impudent hussy. I finished my business, drove to Liverpool Street, and established myself in a first-class smoking carriage. I was alone, and settled myself for a comfortable cigar. I was rudely interrupted. Just as the train was starting, the door opened – and that odious young woman jumped in.

“There! I nearly missed you!” she said.

“I can hold no communication with you,” said I severely; “you are a disgrace to your – er – sex.”

“It’s all right. I’ve wired to the colonel.”

“You’ve wired to my friend Colonel Gunton?”

“Yes, I didn’t want to surprise them. I said you would bring a friend with you. It’s all right, Mr. Miller.”

“I don’t know who you are or what you are; but the Guntons are respectable people, and I am a respectable man, and – ”

“That’s no reason why you should promenade up and down, Mr. Miller. It’s very uncomfortable for me.”

“What is the meaning of this insolent behavior?”

“Why not be friendly? We’re off now, and I must go on.”

“I shall give you in charge at the next station.”

“What for?”

On reflection, I supposed she had committed no criminal offense; and with a dignified air I opened my paper.

“I don’t mind you smoking,” she said, and took out a box of chocolates.

I was at my wits’ end. Either this girl was mad or she was a dangerous and unscrupulous person. She was quite capable of making a most unpleasant and discreditable commotion on the platform at Beach Hill Station. What in the world was I to do?

“Shall we stay long at the Guntons’?” she asked.

“You, madam, will never go there.”

“Oh, yes, I shall.”

“Indeed you won’t. I’ll take care of that. The police will see to that.”

“I don’t care a fig for the police. I shall go and stay as long as you do. They told me to stick to you.”

I became angry. Any man would have. But nothing was to be gained by losing my temper. I took out a sovereign.

“If you’ll get out at the next station, I’ll give you this.”

She laughed merrily. “I thought you went in for personal supervision, not mere pecuniary doles,” she said; “I read that in your speech at the Charity Organization meeting. No; I’m not to be bribed. I’m going to the Guntons’.”

“It’s absurd. It’s preposterous. What will – what will Mrs. Gunton say?”

“Oh, she won’t mind,” answered my companion, with a confident nod. “She’s used to girls like me.”

“You surprise me,” I retorted sarcastically; but she only laughed again. I returned to my paper.

An hour passed in silence. The train began to slacken speed as we neared the station next before Beech Hill. She looked up and said:

“Would you really rather I didn’t come with you?”

I had passed a wretched hour. This girl was evidently bent on blasting my character.

“Madam,” I said, “if you’ll get out at this station, I’ll give you a five-pound note.”

“What? I heard you never gave away a farthing! They said no one could get a penny out of you.”

“It is true that I disapprove of indiscriminate charity; but, under the circumstances, I – ”

“Think I am a deserving object? Well, I’ll take it.”

With a sigh of relief, I took a note from my pocket-book, and gave it her.

“I’ll pay it back soon,” she said.

“Never let me see your face again.”

“Apologize for me to the Guntons. Good-by.”

She jumped out lightly, and I sank back, murmuring, “Thank Heaven!”

After I got rid of her my journey was peaceful and happy, and I forgot my troubles in the warm greeting my old friend Bob Gunton and his wife gave me. The girl must have lied about the telegram; at least, Bob made no reference to it. He had a fine family of boys and girls, and presented them to me with natural pride.

“That’s my lot – except Addie. She’s gone to see some friends; but we expect her back every minute. They keep me alive, I can tell you, Miller.”

After tea, my host and hostess insisted on taking me for a stroll on the terrace. It was a beautiful evening, and I did not mind the cold. As we were talking together, I heard the rumble of wheels. An omnibus stopped at the gate.

“Ah, the ’bus,” said Gunton; “it runs between here and our market-town.”

I hardly heard him; for, to my horror, I saw, descending from the ’bus and opening the gate, that girl!

“Send her away!” I cried; “send her away! On my honor, Bob, as a gentleman, I know nothing about her.”

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“I solemnly assure Mrs. Gunton and yourself that – ”

“What’s the matter with the man? What’s he talking about?”

“Why, Bob, that girl – that barefaced girl!”

“That girl! Why, that’s my daughter Addie!”

“Your daughter?”

The little minx walked up to me with a smile, dropped a little courtesy, and said: “I knew, Mr. Miller, that it wasn’t true that you would refuse to help a really deserving case. The others said you would; but I thought better of you.”

And she had the effrontery, then and there, to tell her parents all about it!

I think parents are the most infatuated class of persons in the community. They laughed, and Mrs. Gunton said, “How clever of you, Addie! You must forgive her, Mr. Miller. My dear girls are so playful!”

Playful! And she never returned the five-pound note!

A GUARDIAN OF MORALITY

Miss Tabitha Grey had not reached the age of forty-five years without acquiring an extensive and unfavorable knowledge of her sex. Men were wicked; Miss Grey admitted and deplored the fact, but it was so much in the order of nature that she had almost ceased to cavil at it. But that women should be wicked! Here Miss Grey’s toleration gave out. And so many women, especially young women, and more especially pretty young women, were wicked. It was atrocious! Entertaining this general opinion, Miss Grey, as a matter of course, held Maggie Lester in the utmost detestation. The Waterfall Hotel was, in fact, hardly large enough to contain, in any comfort, Miss Grey on the one hand and on the other Maggie Lester, her brother Charles, and their friend and traveling companion. Captain Petrie. It is true that the feeling of discomfort was entirely confined to Miss Grey. The young people were very civil to her when any one of them happened to be next her at table d’hôte, and at other times thought nothing about her; but Miss Grey endured agonies enough for an hotelful of people. She shuddered at Maggie’s striped waistcoat and white sailor’s knot with its golden pin, at her brown boots, at her love of long and hard rides, at her not infrequent slang; above all, at the terms of hearty and familiar camaraderie on which she thought fit to conduct her acquaintance with Captain Petrie. The decorum of literature forbids that Miss Grey’s inmost suspicions should be put in writing; it must suffice to say that they were very dark indeed – so dark that all the other ladies, to whom Miss Grey repeated them, could not but come to the conclusion that there must be some truth in them.

One morning, after breakfast, Miss Grey took her knitting and the Church Times and sat down in the veranda. A moment later, to her disgust, Charlie Lester and Captain Petrie came out of the breakfast room, lit their pipes, and, after a polite “Good-morning,” took their seats a few yards from her. Miss Grey sniffed the tobacco-tainted air, and was about to rise and ostentatiously remove herself from the infected zone, when she heard a scrap of conversation between the two young men which entirely altered her determination. She sat still and listened with all her might.

“I wonder when Maggie will be down,” said Lester; “I want to tell her.”

“Oh, you’re too late,” said Petrie; “I’ve told her.”

“What, have you seen her?”

“Yes. I knew she’d like to know, so I went outside her door five minutes ago and shouted what we’d heard, and she came out directly.”

“Had she anything on?” inquired Lester, in an interested tone.

“No,” responded Captain Petrie; “but that made no difference.”

“It would to me,” said Lester, with a smile.

“And to me,” said the captain; “but it didn’t to her. I reminded her of it, and she said that it made no odds – she wanted to hear all I knew directly. So we stood in the passage, and – ”

Miss Grey had been gradually becoming more and more horrified. She had been prepared for a good deal, but this was too much. And the creature’s own brother listened to it! Her knitting fell from her grasp, and the needles jangled on the tiled floor. The captain hastened to pick them up, interrupting his narrative for that purpose; but Miss Grey froze him with an awful look, and strode into the house.

Miss Grey was a woman who never allowed herself to be turned from the path of duty, however painful that path might be to others. She soon made up her mind as to what she must do, and, having come to a resolution, she laid the whole matter before an informal committee of three irreproachable and austere matrons, whom she selected from among her fellow-guests. The immediate result of their conference was, that when Maggie Lester, looking very fresh and blooming after her morning gallop, came in to luncheon and took her place at the table, no fewer than four elderly ladies put down their knives and forks, rose from their chairs, and solemnly stalked out of the room.

“Hullo! what’s up?” said Charlie Lester.

But nobody knew what was up; and, to all appearance, Maggie least of all, for she cheerfully began her lunch, mere remarking to the captain, as though in continuance of a previous conversation:

“It wouldn’t have been so bad if I’d had anything – even the least little bit – on, would it?”

“Ah, you ought to have put your boots on,” said the captain, with a smile.

A fifth lady, sitting by, overheard these remarks, and when, after lunch, Miss Grey informed her of the startling occurrence of the morning, her testimony completed the damning chain of evidence. They made a joke of it! What could the suggestion of boots – only boots – be, except a vulgar, shameless jest? The ladies went in a body to the proprietor, and intimated that either they or the Lester party must forthwith leave the hotel. The proprietor demanded reasons; cogent, irrefragable reasons were supplied by Miss Grey and the fifth lady – reasons clothed, of course, in decorous language, but unmistakably revealing the infamous conduct of Maggie Lester.

“I assure you, ladies,” exclaimed the proprietor, beads of perspiration standing on his brow, “it’s the first time such a thing has ever occurred in my house.”

“It must be the last,” said Miss Grey firmly.

“I will act at once,” declared the proprietor. “This is a respectable house, and such proceedings cannot be tolerated. Good gracious! It would endanger my license!”

“And your soul,” said Miss Grey solemnly.

“I beg your pardon, miss?” said the proprietor.

“And your soul,” repeated Miss Grey.

“Oh, yes, to be sure – of course, my soul, miss. As it was, I had a bother about it last year – my license, I mean, miss. I’ll go to Mr. Lester at once.”

The proprietor was a nervous, bashful man, and when he found himself standing before the Lesters and Captain Petrie, as they drank their after-luncheon coffee, he was much embarrassed. At last he managed to indicate that he wished to speak to Mr. Lester alone.

“Oh, nonsense!” said Charlie. “Go on. What’s the matter?”

The proprietor nerved himself for the effort. After all, if these people were not ashamed for themselves, why should he blush for them? Looking sternly at Charlie, he began to formulate his accusation. He had not got far before Maggie gave a little shriek of amazement; and the captain, jumping up, seized him by the collar, and exclaimed:

“What do you mean, you little rascal? What’s this scandalous nonsense you’ve got hold of?” and the captain shook his host severely.

“I am not to be bullied, sir,” said the proprietor stoutly. “I have excellent authority for what I say, and – ”

“Whose authority?”

The proprietor vouched Miss Grey and the fifth lady.

“We must look into this,” said the captain.

Maggie, who was blushing severely, but was not without a secret tendency to convulsive laughter, was prevailed upon to accompany them, and the four proceeded to the drawing room, where the Inquisition sat enthroned on the sofa, Miss Grey presiding. Miss Grey rose with a gesture of horror.

“Not gone yet?” she exclaimed.

“No, ma’am,” said the captain; “we want to hear your story first.”

“Have you no shame?” demanded Miss Grey of Maggie.

“Never mind that, ma’am,” said the captain; “let’s have the story first.”

Miss Grey cast an appealing glance at the ceiling, and began: “With my own ears I heard it. Mrs. Britson [Mrs. Britson was the fifth lady] will confirm what I say. With my own ears I heard Captain Petrie relate to Mr. Lester – to this person’s brother – that he had had an interview with this person when this person was entirely – ” Miss Grey paused for a moment, gathered her courage, and added in an awestruck whisper, “disrobed.”

A shudder ran through the audience. The culprits’ faces expressed real or simulated astonishment.

“If I must put it plainly,” pursued Miss Grey – and at this several ladies opened their fans and held them before their faces – “Captain Petrie said that Miss Lester – that person – had nothing on, and that when he reminded her of it she stated that the circumstance was immaterial. Subsequently, at luncheon, the young woman herself admitted the fact in the hearing of Mrs. Britson. If that is not enough – ”

It apparently was enough, for Charlie Lester threw himself into an armchair with a wild shriek of laughter. Maggie’s slight figure shook convulsively as she hid her face in her handkerchief, and Captain Petrie, after a moment’s blank amazement, cried out:

“By Jove! I’ve got it. Oh! this beats anything!” And he joined in with a loud guffaw.

“Is that the way you treat such a – an abominable – ” began Miss Grey austerely.

“Oh, stop! for Heaven’s sake stop!” exclaimed the captain; “you’ll be the death of me, you really will!”

Silence followed for a moment, and the captain, conquering his mirth, went on: “I don’t know if any of you ladies go in for horse-racing. Probably not; I’m sure Miss Grey doesn’t. Well, this morning I heard that a horse of mine which is running in a race to-day had done an exceptionally and quite unexpectedly good trial – I mean, had proved a far faster runner than we had supposed. In fact, there was little doubt that he would win the race. Sometimes, ladies, I am wicked enough to bet. Occasionally Charlie Lester is equally wicked. Now and then Miss Lester yields to that vice. Well, as you know, we are far from a telegraph here; and we were much annoyed, Charlie and I, that we could not take advantage of our fresh information to bet on the horse – to put something on, as we say. Miss Lester regretted also, when I told her the news, that she had nothing on – the horse. Do you begin to understand, ladies?”

The ladies glanced at one another in some confusion. Miss Grey looked angry and suspicious.

“And the boots?” she said.

“To put your boots on a horse,” explained the captain politely, “is a slang expression for betting your entire available fortune on his success. Another expression is to put your shirt – ”

“Sir!” said Miss Grey.

But Miss Grey’s sway was ended. Maggie burst into a fresh fit of laughter, and, after a moment’s pause the whole company followed suit. Miss Grey turned and left the room. The next day she left the hotel; she could not face her victorious foes. Captain Petrie insisted on handing her into the omnibus, saying as he did so, “Be easy, my dear madam. In future it shall be my care to see that Miss Lester has something on.”