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.  He ought to talk to these people.  They think he’s skipped.”

He broke off hurriedly as the assistant teller came up trembling.  “We’ll have to close in ten minutes,” he said.  “There’s less than $500 left.”  His mouth twitched.  “I don’t know what we’ll do, sir, when the time comes ... and God only knows what they’ll do.”

“Good God! what’s that?”

Some new commotion was apparent at the entrance of the bank.  The assistant teller grasped his pistol.  The line of waiting men and women turned, for the moment forgetting their quest.  William Sherman, attended by two armed constables, entered the door.  Between them the trio carried two large canvas bags, each bearing the imprint of the United States Treasury.

Sherman halted just inside the door.

“Forty thousand in gold, boys,” he cried, “and plenty more where it came from.  Turner, Lucas & Co. honors every draft.”

His face pressed eagerly against the lattice of the paying teller’s cage stood a little Frenchman.  His hat had fallen from his pomaded hair; his waxed moustache bristled.

“Do you mean you have ze monnaie?  All ze monnaie zat we wish?” he asked gesticulating excitedly with his hands.

“Sure,” returned the teller.  Sherman and his aids were carrying the two sacks into the back of the cage, depositing them on a marble shelf.  “See!” The teller turned one over and a tinkling flood of shining golden disks poured forth.

“Ah, bon! bon!” shrieked the little Frenchman, dancing up and down upon his high-heeled boots.  “If you have ze monnaie, zen I do not want heem.”  He broke out of the line, happily humming a chanson.  Half a dozen people laughed.

“That’s what I say,” shouted other voices.  “We don’t want our money if it’s safe.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII

KING STARTS THE BULLETIN

After several months of business convalescence, San Francisco found itself recovered from the financial chaos of February.  Many well-known men and institutions had not stood the ordeal; some went down the pathway of dishonor to an irretrievable inconsequence and destitution; others profited by their misfortunes and still others, with the dauntless spirit of the time, turned halted energies or aspirations to fresh account.  Among them was James King of William.

The name of his father, William King, was, by an odd necessity, perpetuated with his own.  There were many James Kings and to avert confusion of identities the paternal cognomen was added.