When Egypt Went Broke | Page 8

against the arm and pushed
it away, fright popping her eyelids wide apart.
"I want to protect you," Britt stuttered. "I don't want any harm or
trouble to come to you."

He stepped back and gazed at her imploringly. His abashed obedience,
his promptness in desisting, restored her self-possession immediately.
She had the air of one who had misunderstood friendly interest. "Oh,
Mr. Britt, I know you have a kind heart underneath your--I mean that
folks don't realize how good you are unless they are near to you, as
Frank and I are. We often speak of it." She hurried on. She opened the
door admitting to the bank from the corridor and cheerily called her
"Good morning!" to the cashier as she crossed the threshold.
Mr. Britt stood in his tracks in the corridor after she closed the door. He
stared at the floor with eyes that saw nothing. He slowly raised his hand
and set his right index finger upon the toupee and scratched
meditatively through the mesh--scratched carefully, having accustomed
himself to handling his boughten hair with cautious touch. He had not
liked her intonation when she said "Frank and I." He muttered
something about his feelings. He had never thought of Frank as
belonging in Vona's calculations. He had never considered even the
linking of their names, much less their interests.
But Mr. Britt, having made money his idol, could not understand
worship directed to any other shrine. His face cleared while he
pondered. A girl who frankly declared at all times that she would do
'most anything to help her family out of their troubles was not of a
mind to hitch up with another pauper--a combination of choreman and
cashier--even though she had linked their names casually in speech.
And Mr. Britt mouthed mumblingly some of the sentiments he had put
into words that morning when he arose. He smoothed down the top
piece and looked more at ease. He smiled when he reflected on what he
would have to say to her after Emissary Orne had returned with
something in the line of fruits from the Promised Land. His
self-assurance revived; nevertheless, he tiptoed along the corridor and
listened at the door of the bank.
The reassuring swish of a broom and their casual chatter--he heard only
those commonplace sounds!
She was asking Vaniman if he had mislaid her dustcloth.

Vaniman replied in a tone which indicated that the two were at some
distance from each other. There was no subdued conference--no
murmuring of mushiness such as a meeting in the morning might be
expected to elicit in case there was any sort of an understanding
between them. Mr. Britt tiptoed away from the door and braced back
his shoulders and gave himself a shake of satisfied confidence, and
went serenely into his office, plucking a cigar from his vest pocket. By
permitting himself to smoke again he was breaking the habit of
confining himself to one cigar after breakfast. But many men in
moments of exaltation seek tobacco or alcohol.
Mr. Britt felt that he had broken the ice, at any rate. Mr. Britt decided
that the girl was heart-free and entertained sensible ideas about the
main chance--and she had had a good word to say about Britt's kind
heart. Mr. Britt was sure that Frank Vaniman knew his place and was
keeping it. Therefore, Mr. Britt lighted a fresh cigar and blew visible
smoke rings and inflated invisible mental bubbles and did not pay any
more attention to what Prophet Elias was saying outside. And as if the
Prophet had received a psychological hint that his text shafts were no
longer penetrating the money king's tough hide, the diminuendo of his
orotund marked the progress of his departure.
Usually Mr. Britt went across into the bank and hung around after the
girl arrived. On this morning he stayed in his office. According to his
notion, his advances to her in the corridor, though he had not intended
to be so precipitate in the matter, had given her something to think
about--and he decided to keep away and let her think. If she saw him
following the usual routine, her thoughts might drop back into routine
channels.
He thrilled at the memory of her touch on his arm, even though the
touch had been a thrusting of her hands in self-defense and her eyes had
been big with fright.
He sat down at his desk and tore the leaf off his pad calendar, starting
his business day as usual. He looked at the disclosed date and his eyes
became humid. It was February 14th, the day of St. Valentine. An idea
came to Mr. Britt. He had been wondering how to approach the

question with Vona without blurting the thing and making a mess of