The Golden Flood

“I don’t know, sir. He said he had a letter of introduction to you,” answered the assistant cashier, disclaiming all responsibility in the matter.

The president read the card a second time. The name was unfamiliar.

“Grinnell?” he muttered. “Grinnell? Never heard of him.” Perhaps he felt it was poor policy to show ignorance on any matter whatever. When he spoke again, it was in a voice overflowing with a dignity that was a subtle rebuke to all assistant cashiers:

“I will see him.”

He busied himself once more with the typewritten documents before him, lost in its alluring possibilities, until he became conscious of a presence near him. He still waited, purposely, before looking up. He was a very busy man, and all the world must know it. At length he raised his head majestically, and turned--an animated fragment of a glacier--until his eyes rested on the stranger’s.

“Good-morning, sir,” he said politely.

“Good-morning, Mr. Dawson,” said the stranger. He was a young man, conceivably under thirty, of medium height, square of shoulders, clean-shaven, and clear-skinned. He had brown hair and brown eyes. His dress hinted at careful habits rather than at fashionable tailors. Gold-rimmed spectacles gave him a studious air, which disappeared whenever he spoke. As if at the sound of his own voice, his eyes took on a look of alert self-confidence which interested the bank president. Mr. Dawson was deeply prejudiced against the look of extreme astuteness, blended with the desire to create a favourable impression, so familiar to him as the president of the richest bank in Wall Street.

“You are Mr.----” The president looked at the stranger’s card as though he had left it unread until he had finished far more important business. It really was unnecessary; but it had become a habit, which he lost only when speaking to his equals or his superiors in wealth.

“Grinnell,” prompted the stranger, very calmly. He was so unimpressed by the president that the president was impressed by him.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Williams tells me you wish to become one of our depositors?”

“Yes, sir. I have here,” taking a slip of paper from his pocket-book, “an Assay Office check on the Sub-Treasury. It is for a trifle over a hundred thousand dollars.”

Even the greatest bank in Wall Street must have a kindly feeling toward depositors of a hundred thousand dollars. Mr. Dawson permitted himself to smile graciously.

“I am sure we shall be glad to have your account, Mr. Grinnell,” he said. “You are in business in----” The slight arching of his eyebrows, rather than the inflection of his voice, made his words a delicate interrogation. He was a small, slender man, greyhaired and grey-moustached, with an air of polite aloofness from trivialities. His manners were what you might expect of a man whose grandfather had been Minister to France, and had never forgotten it; nor had his children. His self-possession was so great that it was not noticeable.

“I am not in any business, Mr. Dawson, unless,” said the young man with a smile that deprived his voice of any semblance of pertness or of premeditated discourtesy, “it is the business of depositing $103,648.67 with the Metropolitan National Bank. My friend, Professor Willetts, of Columbia, gave me a letter of introduction. Here it is. I may say, Mr. Dawson, that I haven’t the slightest intention of disturbing this account, as far as I know now, for an indefinite period.” The president read the letter. It was from the professor of metallurgy at Columbia, who was an old acquaintance of Dawson’s. It merely said that George K. Grinnell was one of his old students, a graduate of the School of Mines, who had asked him to suggest a safe bank of deposit. This the Metropolitan certainly was. He had asked his young friend to attach his own signature at the bottom, since Grinnell had no other bank accounts, and no other way of having his signature verified. Mr. Grinnell had said he wished his money to be absolutely safe, and Professor Willetts took great pleasure in sending him to Mr. Dawson.

Mr. Dawson bowed his head--an acquiescence meant to be encouraging. To the young man the necessity for such encouragement was not clear. Possibly it showed in his eyes, for Mr. Dawson said very politely, in an almost courtly way he had at times to show some people that an aristocrat could do business aristocratically:

“It is not usual for us to accept accounts from strangers. We do not really know.” very gently, “that you are the man to whom this letter was given, nor that your signature is that of Mr. George K. Grinnell.”

The young man laughed pleasantly. “I see your position, Mr. Dawson, but, really, I am not important enough to be impersonated by anybody. As for my being George K. Grinnell, I’ve laboured under that impression for twenty-nine years. I’ll have Professor Willetts in person introduce me, if you wish. I have some letters----” He made a motion toward his breast pocket, but Mr. Dawson held up a hand in polite dissent; he was above suspicions. “And as for my signature, if you will send a clerk with me to the Assay Office, next door they will doubtless verify it to your satisfaction; I can just as easily bring legal tender notes, I suppose. In any case, as I have no intention of touching this money for some time to come, I suppose the bank will be safe from----”

“Oh,” interrupted Dawson, with a sort of subdued cordiality, “as I told you before, while we do not usually take accounts from people of whom we know nothing in a business way, we will make an exception in your case.” That the young man might not think the bank’s eagerness for deposits made its officers unbusinesslike, the president added, with a politely explanatory smile: “Professor Willetts’s letter is sufficient introduction. As you say you are not in business--”

He paused and looked at the young man for confirmation.

“No, sir; I happen to have this money, and I desire a safe place to keep it in. I may bring a little more. It depends upon certain family matters. But that is for the future to decide. In the meantime, I should like to leave this money here, untouched.”

“Very well, sir.” The president pushed a button on his desk. A bright-looking, neatly dressed office-boy appeared, his face exaggeratedly attentive.

“Ask Mr. Williams to come in, please.” The office-boy turned on his heels as by a military command, and hastened away. It was the bank’s training; the president’s admirers said it showed his genius for organization down to the smallest detail. Presently the assistant cashier entered.

“Mr. Williams, Mr. Grinnell will be one of our most valued depositors. We must show him that we appreciate his confidence in us. Kindly attend to the necessary details.” Mr. Dawson paused. Perhaps his hesitancy was meant as an invitation to Mr. George Kitchell Grinnell to vouchsafe further information of a personal nature. But Mr. Grinnell said, with a smile: “Many thanks, Mr. Dawson,” and Mr. Dawson smiled back, politely. As the men turned to go, he took up the underwriting plan and forgot all about the incident. It was a Thursday. It might as well have been a Monday or a Tuesday; but it was not.

Mr. Williams called up Professor Willetts on the telephone, who said he had given a letter of introduction to George K. Grinnell. He described Grinnell’s appearance, and added that Grinnell had been one of his students, and was quite well up on metallurgy, but was not, so far as the professor knew, engaged in active business. He thought Grinnell had some private means. The Assay Office people had identified Grinnell and his signature. It was not much information, but it was enough.

On the following Thursday, after the close of the business day, Mr. Dawson, reading over some routine memoranda submitted by the cashier, found his gaze arrested by a line that told of the deposit of $151,008 by “George K. Grinnell.” He sent for the cashier.

“What about this $151,000 deposit by George K. Grinnell?” he asked.

“He deposited an Assay Office check, the same as he did last week.”

The president frowned. He was puzzled.

“If he should happen to make any further deposits of this character, tell the receiving teller to say I should like to see him, please.”

“Very well, sir.”

The president turned to his desk again, and promptly forgot the incident--forgot it for exactly one week. On the following Thursday, shortly before noon, Williams, the assistant cashier--a short, stout man, with an oleaginous smile--approached his feared chief.

“Excuse me, Mr. Dawson,”--the assistant cashier’s habitual attitude before the president was one uninterrupted apology for existing at all--“Mr. Grinnell is here.”

“Grinnell? Grinnell?” mused the president, frowning.

“He has just deposited $250,000--an Assay Office check, the same as last Thursday. You said if he should----”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Mr. Dawson sharply. “Tell him to be kind enough to come in.” He muttered to himself: “That makes half a million in gold in a fortnight. H’m!” When Mr. Dawson h’mmed to himself it meant business--usually, woe to the vanquished!

He rose to greet the h’m-compelling depositor.

“How do you do, Mr. Grinnell?” He smiled with a cordiality that was more than mere affability and extended his hand. The president’s grasp was firm. Wall Street said that his soul had been in cold storage some thirty thousand centuries before it came down to earth to animate the body of Richard Dawson. But Mr. Dawson, just as there are men who endeavour to seem honest by habitually looking you straight in the eyes, believed that strong pressure must indicate genuine friendliness in a hand clasp.

Mr. Grinnell smiled. There was not the faintest trace of hostility in the young man’s smile; but it was not a fatuous smile, nevertheless.

“The cashier said you----”

“Yes; I told him to ask you to be good enough to see me. I hope I am not inconveniencing you?”