It was perfectly apparent that Broker Barnes was not present to answer roll call.

And after waiting, in whimsical delay, to make sure that Mr. Barnes had not come footing it behind the train, Frank whipped up and drove back to Egypt.  He felt no pique; he had enjoyed the outing in the sparkling night.

In the gray dawn he again routed out Files’s yawning hostler and turned the equipage over to him.

“Hope you found it a starry night for a ramble,” suggested the hostler, willing to be informed as to why a bank cashier had been gallivanting around over the country between days, turning in a sweating horse at break of dawn.

Vaniman allowed that it was a starry night, all right, and left the topic there, with a period set to it by the snap of his tone.

He went directly to the bank and admitted himself with his keys.

President Britt came from the back room, with yawns that matched those of the hostler.

“What time did Barnes say he’d be down here from the tavern in the morning?”

“Mr. Barnes did not come on that train, sir.”

“Well, I’ll be—­” rapped Britt, snapping shut his jaws.

“But I haven’t minded the trip—­I really enjoyed the ride,” insisted the messenger.

“Don’t tell that to Barnes when he shows up to-night on Ike Jones’s stage,” commanded Britt.  “I propose to have a few words to say about what it means in the country when a city fathead changes his mind about the train he’ll take.”  He was looking past the cashier while he talked.  He turned away and picked up his hat and coat from a chair.  “I’ll be going along to my house, I reckon.  You’d better catch a cat-nap on the cot.  I found it comfortable.  I’ve slept every minute since you’ve been gone.”

Then Britt hurried out, locking the door behind him.

CHAPTER XII

SOMETHING TO BE EXPLAINED

By noon that day, in the lulls between customers at the wicket, Vaniman had had a succession of run-ins with the demon of drowsiness—­a particularly mischievous elf, sometimes, in business hours.  Whenever he caught himself snapping back into wakefulness he found Vona’s twinkle of amusement waiting for him.

Once she pointed to the big figures on the day-by-day calendar on the wall.  The date was February 21st.  “Console yourself, Frank, dear,” she advised, teasing him.  “The bank will be closed to-morrow and you can make Washington’s Birthday your sleep day!  But I do hope you can stay awake at our play this evening.”

“The man who invented sleep as a blessing didn’t take into account city brokers who change their minds about trains,” he returned.  “I hope old Ike Jones will sing that ‘Ring, ting!  Foo loo larry, lo day’ song of his all the way coming up from Levant.  It’ll be about the sort of punishment that Behind-time Barnes deserves.”

A few minutes later the cashier was jumped out of another incipient nap by the clamor of bells.  The two horses that whisked past, pulling a double-seated sleigh, were belted with bells.  A big man with a lambrequin mustache was filling the rear seat measurably well.  Folks recognized the team as a “let-hitch” from Levant.