“I’ve done that twenty year of my life, brother William John,” he said.  “Eh?  Perhaps you didn’t guess I was worth some thousands when I got away from you just now?  Let any chap try to stop me!  They may just as well try to stop a railway train.  Steam’s up, and I’m off.”

He laughed and wiped his forehead.  Slightly vexed at the small amount of discoverable astonishment on the farmer’s face, he continued,—­

“You don’t think much of it.  Why, there ain’t another man but myself Boyne’s Bank would trust.  They’ve trusted me thirty year:—­why shouldn’t they go on trusting me another thirty year?  A good character, brother William John, goes on compound-interesting, just like good coin.  Didn’t you feel a sort of heat as I brushed by you—­eh?  That was a matter of one-two-three-four” Anthony watched the farmer as his voice swelled up on the heightening numbers:  “five-six-six thousand pounds, brother William John.  People must think something of a man to trust him with that sum pretty near every day of their lives, Sundays excepted—­eh? don’t you think so?”

He dwelt upon the immense confidence reposed in him, and the terrible temptation it would be to some men, and how they ought to thank their stars that they were never thrown in the way of such a temptation, of which he really thought nothing at all—­nothing! until the farmer’s countenance was lightened of its air of oppression, for a puzzle was dissolved in his brain.  It was now manifest to him that Anthony was trusted in this extraordinary manner because the heads and managers of Boyne’s Bank knew the old man to be possessed of a certain very respectable sum:  in all probability they held it in their coffers for safety and credited him with the amount.  Nay, more; it was fair to imagine that the guileless old fellow, who conceived himself to be so deep, had let them get it all into their hands without any suspicion of their prominent object in doing so.

Mr. Fleming said, “Ah, yes, surely.”

He almost looked shrewd as he smiled over Anthony’s hat.  The healthy exercise of his wits relieved his apprehensive paternal heart; and when he mentioned that Dahlia had not been at home when he called, he at the same time sounded his hearer for excuses to be raised on her behalf, himself clumsily suggesting one or two, as to show that he was willing to swallow a very little for comfort.

“Oh, of course!” said Anthony, jeeringly.  “Out?  If you catch her in, these next three or four days, you’ll be lucky.  Ah, brother William John!”

The farmer, half frightened by Anthony’s dolorous shake of his head, exclaimed:  “What’s the matter, man?”

“How proud I should be if only you was in a way to bank at Boyne’s!”

“Ah!” went the farmer in his turn, and he plunged his chin deep in his neckerchief.

“Perhaps some of your family will, some day, brother William John.”

“Happen, some of my family do, brother Anthony!”