Copper Streak Trail | Page 7

acres patented land. Sixty acres under ditch. I'd give you a mortgage on that. Pete Johnson--Peter Wallace Johnson on mortgages and warrants."
"I do not think we would consider it."
"Good security--none better," said Pete. "Good for three times two thousand at a forced sale."
"Doubtless!" The official shoulders shrugged incredulity.
"I'm known round here--you could look up my standing, verify titles, and so on," urged Pete.
"I could not make the loan on my own authority."
Pete's face fell.
"Can't I see Mr. Gans, then?" he persisted.
"He's out to luncheon."
"Be back soon?"
"I really could not say."
"I might talk to Mr. Longman, perhaps?"
"Mr. Longman is on a trip to the Coast."
Johnson twisted his fingers nervously on the onyx sill. Then he raised his downcast eyes, lit with a fresh hope.
"Is--is the janitor in?" he asked.
"You are pleased to be facetious, sir," the teller replied. His lip curled; he turned away, tilting his chin with conscious dignity.
Mr. Johnson tapped the sill with the finger of authority.
"Young man, do you want I should throw this bank out of the window?" he said severely. "Because if you don't, you uncover some one a grown man can do business with. You're suffering from delusions of grandeur, fair young sir. I almost believe you have permitted yourself to indulge in some levity with me--me, P. Wallace Johnson! And if I note any more light-hearted conduct on your part I'll shake myself and make merry with you till you'll think the roof has done fell on you. Now you dig up the Grand Panjandrum, with the little round button on top, or I'll come in unto you! Produce! Trot!"
The cashier's dignity abated. Mr. Johnson was, by repute, no stranger to him. Not sorry to pass this importunate borrower on to other hands, he tapped at a door labeled "Vice-President," opened it, and said something in a low voice. From this room a man emerged at once--Marsh, vice-president, solid of body, strong of brow. Clenched between heavy lips was a half-burned cigar, on which he puffed angrily.
"Well, Johnson, what's this?" he demanded.
"You got money to sell? I want to buy some. Let me come in and talk it up to you."
"Let him in, Hudson," said Marsh. His cigar took on a truculent angle as he listened to Johnson's proposition.
It appeared that Johnson's late outburst of petulance had cleared his bosom of much perilous stuff. His crisp tones carried a suggestion of lingering asperity, but otherwise he bore himself with becoming modesty and diffidence in the presence of the great man. He stated his needs briskly and briefly, as before.
"Money is tight," said Marsh curtly.
He scowled; he thrust his hands into his pockets as if to guard them; he rocked back upon his heels; his eyes were leveled at a point in space beyond Pete's shoulder; he clamped his cigar between compressed lips and puffed a cloud of smoke from a corner of a mouth otherwise grimly tight.
Mr. Peter Johnson thought again of that unlit cigar, came swiftly to tiptoe, and puffed a light from the glowing tip of Marsh's cigar before that astonished person could withdraw his gaze from the contemplation of remote infinities. The banker recoiled, flushed and frowning; the teller bent hastily over his ledger.
Johnson, puffing luxuriously, renewed his argument with a guileless face. Marsh shook his head and made a bear-trap mouth.
"Why don't you go to Prescott, Johnson? There's where your stuff is. They know you better than we do."
"Why, Mr. Marsh, I don't want to go to Prescott. Takes too long. I need this money right away."
"Really--but that is hardly our affair, is it?" A frosty smile accompanied the query.
"Aw, what's wrong? Isn't that security all right?" urged Pete.
"No doubt the security is exactly as you say," said the banker, "but your property is in another county, a long distance from here. We would have to make inquiries and send the mortgage to be filed in Prescott--very inconvenient. Besides, as I told you before, money is tight. We regret that we cannot see our way to accommodate you. This is final!"
"Shucks!" said Pete, crestfallen and disappointed; he lingered uncertainly, twisting his hat brim between his hands.
"That is final," repeated the banker. "Was there anything else?"
"A check to cash," said Pete humbly.
He went back into the lobby, much chastened; the spring lock of the door snapped behind him.
"Wait on this gentleman, if you please, Mr. Hudson," said Marsh, and busied himself at a cabinet.
Hudson rose from his desk and moved across to the cashier's window. His lip curved disdainfully. Mr. Johnson's feet were brisk and cheerful on the tiles. When his face appeared at the window, his hat and the long black cigar were pushed up to angles parallel, jaunty and perilous. He held in his hand a sheaf of papers belted with a rubber band; he slid over the topmost