But his heart was heavy with foreboding as he entered his own bank.  Here the line was somewhat shorter than at most of the others, but still sufficiently long to cause dismay.  Sherman passed behind the counter and conferred with his assistant.

“We close in half an hour—­at three o’clock,” he said.  “That will give us a breathing spell.  Tomorrow comes the test.  By then the town will know of Page-Bacon’s failure ...”

He beckoned to the head accountant, who came hurriedly, a quill pen bobbing behind his ear, his tall figure bent from stooping over ledgers.

“How much will we require to withstand a day’s run?” Sherman flung the question at him like a thunderbolt.  And almost as though the impact of some verbal missile had deprived him of speech, the man stopped, stammering.

“I—­I—­I think, s-s-sir,” he gulped and recovered himself with an effort, “f-forty thousand will do it.”

Swiftly Sherman turned toward the door.  “Where are you going?” the assistant called.

“To get forty thousand dollars—­if I have to turn highwayman,” Sherman flung over his shoulder.

CHAPTER XXXVII

“Give us our savings!”

As he left the bank Sherman cast over in his mind with desperate swiftness the list of men to whom he could go for financial support.  Turner, Lucas & Co. had loaned Captain Folsom $25,000 on his two late ventures, the Metropolitan Theatre and the Tehama House.  Both, under normal conditions, would have made their promoter rich.  But nothing was at par these days.

Sherman wondered uneasily whether Folsom could help.  He was not a man to save money, and the banker, who made it his business to know what borrowers of the bank’s money did, knew that Folsom liked gambling, frequented places where the stakes ran high.  Of late he had met heavy losses.  However, he was a big man, Sherman reasoned; he should have large resources.  Both of them were former army officers.  That should prove a bond between them.  At Captain Folsom’s house an old negro servant opened the door, his wrinkled black face anxious.

“Mars Joe, he ain’t right well dis evenin’,” he said, evasively, but when Sherman persisted he was ushered into a back room where sat the redoubtable captain, all the fierceness of his burnside whiskers, the austerity of his West Point manner, melted in the indignity of sneezes and wheezes.

Sherman looked at him in frank dismay.

“Heavens, man,” he said, “I’m sorry to intrude on you in this condition ... but my errand won’t wait....”

“What do you want, Bill Sherman?” the sick man glowered.

“Money,” Sherman answered crisply.  “You know, perhaps, that Page, Bacon & Co. have failed.  Everyone’s afraid of his deposits.  We’ve got to have cash tomorrow.  How about your—?”

With a cry of irritation Folsom threw up his hands.  “Money!  God Almighty!  Sherman, there’s not a loose dollar in town.  My agent, Van Winkle, has walked his legs off, talked himself hoarse....  He can’t get anything.  It’s impossible.”