“He loves me—­he loves me not!” murmured Mr. Johnson sadly, plucking the petals from an imaginary daisy.

The clerk sauntered to the teller’s wicket and frowned upon his customer from under eyebrows arched and supercilious; he preserved a haughty silence.  Before this official disapproval Peter’s eyes wavered and fell, abashed.

“I’ll—­I’ll stick my face through there if you’d like to step on it!” he faltered.

The official eyebrows grew arrogant.

“You are wasting my time.  Have you any business here?”

“Ya-as.  Be you the cashier?”

“His assistant.”

“I’d like to borrow some money,” said Pete timidly.  He tucked away the unlit cigar.  “Two thousand.  Name of Johnson.  Triangle E brand—­Yavapai County!  Two hundred Herefords in a fenced township.  Three hundred and twenty acres patented land.  Sixty acres under ditch.  I’d give you a mortgage on that.  Pete Johnson—­Peter Wallace Johnson on mortgages and warrants.”

“I do not think we would consider it.”

“Good security—­none better,” said Pete.  “Good for three times two thousand at a forced sale.”

“Doubtless!” The official shoulders shrugged incredulity.

“I’m known round here—­you could look up my standing, verify titles, and so on,” urged Pete.

“I could not make the loan on my own authority.”

Pete’s face fell.

“Can’t I see Mr. Gans, then?” he persisted.

“He’s out to luncheon.”

“Be back soon?”

“I really could not say.”

“I might talk to Mr. Longman, perhaps?”

“Mr. Longman is on a trip to the Coast.”

Johnson twisted his fingers nervously on the onyx sill.  Then he raised his downcast eyes, lit with a fresh hope.

“Is—­is the janitor in?” he asked.

“You are pleased to be facetious, sir,” the teller replied.  His lip curled; he turned away, tilting his chin with conscious dignity.

Mr. Johnson tapped the sill with the finger of authority.

“Young man, do you want I should throw this bank out of the window?” he said severely.  “Because if you don’t, you uncover some one a grown man can do business with.  You’re suffering from delusions of grandeur, fair young sir.  I almost believe you have permitted yourself to indulge in some levity with me—­me, P. Wallace Johnson!  And if I note any more light-hearted conduct on your part I’ll shake myself and make merry with you till you’ll think the roof has done fell on you.  Now you dig up the Grand Panjandrum, with the little round button on top, or I’ll come in unto you!  Produce!  Trot!”

The cashier’s dignity abated.  Mr. Johnson was, by repute, no stranger to him.  Not sorry to pass this importunate borrower on to other hands, he tapped at a door labeled “Vice-President,” opened it, and said something in a low voice.  From this room a man emerged at once—­Marsh, vice-president, solid of body, strong of brow.  Clenched between heavy lips was a half-burned cigar, on which he puffed angrily.