They pressed
shoulder to shoulder. Those at the head had their noses almost against
the glass. Inside of the counting houses men with pale, harried faces
stood behind their grilled iron wickets, wondering how long the pile of
silver and gold within their reach would stay that clamorous human tide.
Doors swung back and it swept in, a great wave, almost overturning
the janitors.
The cashier and assistant manager of Lucas & Co. watched nervously, the
former now and then running his fingers through his sparse hair; the
assistant manager at intervals retired to a back room where he consulted
a decanter and a tall glass. Frequently he summoned the bookkeeper.
"How's the money lasting?" he would inquire almost in a whisper, and the
other answered, "Still holding out."
But now the assistant manager saw that the cash on hand was almost
exhausted. He was afraid to ask the bookkeeper any more questions.
"Where the devil's Sherman?" he snapped at the cashier. That official
started. "Why--er--how should I know?... He was hunting Major Snyder
this morning. He had a check from Hammond, the collector of the port."
"Damnation!" cried the assistant manager. "Sherman ought to be here.
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