The Perturbations of the Bank Manager.

The windows of the Kangaroo Bank were ablaze with light, although the town clock had struck eleven. It was the dolorous hour when the landlord of The Lucky Digger, obliged by relentless law, reluctantly turned into the street the topers and diggers who filled his bar.

Bare-headed, the nails of his right hand picking nervously at the fingers of his left, the manager of the Bank emerged from a side-door. He glanced up the dark street towards the great mountains which loomed darkly in the Cimmerian gloom.

“Dear me, dear me,” murmured he to himself, “he is very late. What can have kept him?” He glanced down the street, and saw the small crowd wending its way from the hostelry. “It was really a most dreadful storm, the most dreadful thunderstorm I ever remember.” His eye marked where the light from the expansive windows of the Bank illumined the wet asphalt pavement. “Landslips frequently occur on newly made tracks, especially after heavy rain. It’s a great risk, a grave risk, this transporting of gold from one place to another.”

“’Evenin’, boss. Just a little cheque for twenty quid. I’ll take it in notes.”

The men from The Lucky Digger had paused before the brilliantly lighted building.

“Give him a chance.... Let him explain.... Carn’t you see there’s a run on the Bank.”

“Looks bad.... Clerks in the street.... All lighted up at this time o’ night.... No money left.”

“Say, boss, have they bin an’ collared the big safe? Do you want assistance?”

The Manager turned to take refuge in the Bank, but his tormentors were relentless.

“Hold on, mate—you’re in trouble. Confide in us. If the books won’t balance, what matter? Don’t let that disturb your peace of mind. Come and have a drink.... Take a hand at poker.... First tent over the bridge, right-hand side.”

“It’s no go, boys. He’s narked because he knows we want an overdraft. Let ’im go and count his cash.”

The Manager pulled himself free from the roisterers and escaped into the Bank by the side door, and the diggers continued noisily on their way.

The lights of the Bank suddenly went out, and the Manager, after carefully locking the door behind him, crossed over the street to the livery stables, where a light burned during the greater part of the night. In a little box of a room, where harness hung on all the walls, there reclined on a bare and dusty couch a red-faced man, whose hair looked as if it had been closely cropped with a pair of horse-clippers. When he caught sight of the banker, he sat up and exclaimed, “Good God, Mr. Tomkinson! Ain’t you in bed?”

“It’s this gold-escort, Manning—it was due at six o’clock.”

“Look here.” The stable-keeper rose from his seat, placed his hand lovingly on a trace which hung limply on the wall. “Don’t I run the coach to Beaver Town?—and I guess a coach is a more ticklish thing to run than a gold-escort. Lord bless your soul, isn’t every coach supposed to arrive before dark? But they don’t. ‘The road was slippy with frost—I had to come along easy,’ the driver’ll say. Or it’ll be, ‘I got stuck up by a fresh in the Brown River.’ That’s it. I know. But they always arrive, sometime or other. I’ll bet you a fiver—one of your own, if you like—that the rivers are in flood, and your people can’t get across. Same with the Beaver Town coach. She was due at six o’clock, and here’ve I been drowsing like a more-pork on this couch, when I might have been in bed. An’ to bed I go. If she comes in to-night, the driver can darn well stable the ’orses himself. Good night.”

This was a view of the question that had not occurred to Mr. Tomkinson, but he felt he must confer with the Sergeant of Police.

The lock-up was situated in a by-street not far from the centre of the town. The Sergeant was sitting at a desk, and reading the entries in a big book. His peaked shako lay in front of him, and he smoked a cigar as he pored over his book.

He said nothing, he barely moved, when the banker entered; but his frank face, in which a pair of blue eyes stood well apart, lighted up with interest and attention as Mr. Tomkinson told his tale. When the narrative was ended, he said quietly, “Yes, they may be weather-bound. Did you have a clear understanding that the gold was to be brought in to-day?”

“It was perfectly understood.”

“How much gold did you say there was?”

“From fifteen to twenty thousand pounds’ worth—it depends on how much the agent has bought.”

“A lot of money, sir; quite a nice little fortune. It must be seen to. I’ll tell you what I will do. Two mounted constables shall go out at daylight, and I guarantee that if the escort is to be found, they will find it.”

“Thank you,” said Tomkinson. “I think it ought to be done. You will send them out first thing in the morning? Thank you. Good night.”

As the banker turned to go, the Sergeant rose.

“Wait a moment,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”

They walked contemplatively side by side till they reached the main street, where a horseman stood, hammering at Manning’s stable-gate.

“Nobody in?” said the Sergeant. “You had better walk inside, and put the horse up yourself.”

“I happen to know that the owner has gone to bed,” said Tomkinson.

The horseman passed through the gateway, and was about to lead his sweating mount into the stables, when the Sergeant stopped him.

“Which way have you come to-day?” he asked.

“From Bush Robin Creek,” replied the traveller.

“You have ridden right through since morning?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“Did you overtake some men with a pack-horse?”

“No. I passed Mr. Scarlett, after the thunderstorm came on. That was on the other side of the ranges.”

“How did you find the rivers? Fordable?”

“They were all right, except that on this side of the range they had begun to rise.”

“Perhaps the men we are expecting,” said the nervous banker, “took shelter in the bush when the storm came on. You may have passed without seeing them.”

“Who are the parties you are expecting?” asked the traveller.

“Mr. Zahn, the agent of the Kangaroo Bank, was on the road to-day with a considerable quantity of gold,” replied the Sergeant.

“You mean the gold-escort,” said the traveller. “It left about three hours before I did.”

“Do you know Mr. Zahn?” asked the Sergeant. “I do. I’ve sold gold to him.”

“I’ll take your name, if you please,” said the Sergeant, producing his pocket-book.

“Rooker, Thomas Samuel Rooker,” said the traveller.

“Where are you to be found?”

“At The Lucky Digger.”

“Thank you,” said the Sergeant, as he closed his book with a snap and put it in his pocket. “Good night.”

“Good night,” said the traveller, as he led his horse into the stable. “If I can be of any use, send for me in the morning.”

“It’s pretty certain that this man never saw them,” said the Sergeant, “therefore they were not on the road when he passed them. They must have been, as you say, in the bush. There is plenty of hope yet, sir, but I should advise you to get up pretty early to-morrow morning, if you want to see my mounted men start. Good night.”

With a gloomy response, Mr. Tomkinson turned his steps towards the Bank, there to toss on a sleepless bed till morning.