“Then you can do nothing?”

For answer Folsom broke into a torrent of sneezes and coughs.  The old negro came running.  Sherman shook his head and left the room.

There remained Major Hammond, collector of the port, two of whose notes the bank held.

He and Sherman were not over-friendly; yet Hammond must be asked.  Sherman made his way to the customs house briskly, stated his business to the doorkeeper and sat down in an anteroom to await Hammond’s pleasure.  There he cooled his heels for a considerable period before he was summoned to an inner office.

“Well, Sherman,” he asked, not ungraciously, “what can I do for you?”

“You can take up one of your notes with our bank,” replied Sherman, without ado.  “We need cash desperately.”

“’Fraid of a run, eh?”

“Not afraid, no.  But preparing for it.”

The other nodded his approval.  “Quite right! quite right!” he said with unexpected warmth....  “So you’d like me to cash one of my notes, Mr. Sherman?”

“Why, yes, sir, if it wouldn’t inconvenience you,” the banker answered, “it would aid us greatly.”  He looked into the collector’s keen, inquiring eyes, then added:  “I may as well say quite frankly, Mr. Hammond, you’re our last resort.”

“Then why”—­the other’s smile was whimsical—­“then why not both of my notes?”

[Illustration:  There sat the redoubtable captain, all the ... austerity of his West Point manner melted in the indignity of sneezes and wheezes....  “Money!  God Almighty!  Sherman, there’s not a loose dollar in town.”]

“Do you mean it?” Sherman asked breathlessly.

By way of answer Hammond drew a book of printed forms toward him.  Calmly, leisurely, he wrote several lines; tore a long, narrow strip from the book and handed it to Sherman.

“Here’s my check for $40,000 on the United States Treasurer.  He will cash it in gold.  Never mind, don’t thank me, this is purely business.  I know what’s up, young man.  I can’t see your people go under.  Good day!”

* * * * *

Ten o’clock on the following morning.  Hundreds of people lined up before the doors of San Francisco banks.  Men of all classes; top-hatted merchants rubbed elbows with red-shirted miners, Irish laborers smoking clay pipes, Mexican vaqueros, roustabouts from the docks, gamblers, bartenders, lawyers, doctors, politicians.  Here and there one saw women with children in their arms or holding them by the hand.  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.”