“He hain’t come in yet,” was the reply.  “Up to the barn, I reckon, but he’s liable to come in any minute, an’ you c’n step into the back room an’ wait fer him,” indicating the direction with a wave of his hand.

Business had not begun to be engrossing, though the bank was open, and John had hardly seated himself when Timson came into the back room and, taking a chair where he could see the counter in the front office, proceeded to investigate the stranger, of whose identity he had not the smallest doubt.  But it was not Mr. Timson’s way to take things for granted in silence, and it must be admitted that his curiosity in this particular case was not without warrant.  After a scrutiny of John’s face and person, which was not brief enough to be unnoticeable, he said, with a directness which left nothing in that line to be desired, “I reckon you’re the new man Dave’s ben gettin’ up from the city.”

“I came up yesterday,” admitted John.

“My name’s Timson,” said Chet.

“Happy to meet you,” said John, rising and putting out his hand.  “My name is Lenox,” and they shook hands—­that is, John grasped the ends of four limp fingers.  After they had subsided into their seats, Chet’s opaquely bluish eyes made another tour of inspection, in curiosity and wonder.

“You alwus lived in the city?” he said at last.

“It has always been my home,” was the reply.

“What put it in your head to come up here?” with another stare.

“It was at Mr. Harum’s suggestion,” replied John, not with perfect candor; but he was not minded to be drawn out too far.

“D’ye know Dave?”

“I have never met him.”  Mr. Timson looked more puzzled than ever.

“Ever ben in the bankin’ bus’nis?”

“I have had some experience of such accounts in a general way.”

“Ever keep books?”

“Only as I have told you,” said John, smiling at the little man.

“Got any idee what you’ll have to do up here?” asked Chet.

“Only in a general way.”

“Wa’al,” said Mr. Timson, “I c’n tell ye; an’, what’s more, I c’n tell ye, young man, ‘t you hain’t no idee of what you’re undertakin’, an’ ef you don’t wish you was back in New York ’fore you git through I ain’t no guesser.”

“That is possible,” said John readily, recalling his night and his breakfast that morning.

“Yes, sir,” said the other.  “Yes, sir; if you do what I’ve had to do, you’ll do the hull darned thing, an’ nobody to help you but Pele Hopkins, who don’t count fer a row o’ crooked pins.  As fer’s Dave’s concerned,” asserted the speaker with a wave of his hands, “he don’t know no more about bankin’ ‘n a cat.  He couldn’t count a thousan’ dollars in an hour, an’, as for addin’ up a row o’ figures, he couldn’t git it twice alike, I don’t believe, if he was to be hung for’t.”

“He must understand the meaning of his own books and accounts, I should think,” remarked John.