Copper Streak Trail | Page 7

he
dropped the match on the tiled floor and stepped upon it. The clerk
hesitated and then rose.
"He loves me--he loves me not!" murmured Mr. Johnson sadly,
plucking the petals from an imaginary daisy.
The clerk sauntered to the teller's wicket and frowned upon his
customer from under eyebrows arched and supercilious; he preserved a
haughty silence. Before this official disapproval Peter's eyes wavered
and fell, abashed.
"I'll--I'll stick my face through there if you'd like to step on it!" he
faltered.
The official eyebrows grew arrogant.
"You are wasting my time. Have you any business here?"
"Ya-as. Be you the cashier?"
"His assistant."
"I'd like to borrow some money," said Pete timidly. He tucked away the
unlit cigar. "Two thousand. Name of Johnson. Triangle E
brand--Yavapai County! Two hundred Herefords in a fenced township.
Three hundred and twenty 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.