“Oh, father, why do we want to ride?”

“Yes, I tell ye!” said the farmer, chafing against his coat-collar.

“It is an expense, when we can walk, father.”

“What do I care for th’ expense?  I shall ride.”  He roared again for a cab, and one came that took them in; after which, the farmer, not being spoken to, became gravely placid as before.  They were put down at Boyne’s Bank.  Anthony was on the look-out, and signalled them to stand away some paces from the door.  They were kept about a quarter of an hour waiting between two tides of wayfarers, which hustled them one way and another, when out, at last, came the old, broad, bent figure, with little finicking steps, and hurried past them head foremost, his arms narrowed across a bulgy breast.  He stopped to make sure that they were following, beckoned with his chin, and proceeded at a mighty rate.  Marvellous was his rounding of corners, his threading of obstructions, his skilful diplomacy with passengers.  Presently they lost sight of him, and stood bewildered; but while they were deliberating they heard his voice.  He was above them, having issued from two swinging bright doors; and he laughed and nodded, as he ran down the steps, and made signs, by which they were to understand that he was relieved of a weight.

“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.