Chapter 1
_ CHAPTER I
Peter was still poring over his ledger one dark afternoon in December, his bald head glistening like a huge ostrich egg under the flare of the overhead gas jets, when Patrick, the night watchman, catching sight of my face peering through the outer grating, opened the door of the Bank.
The sight so late in the day was an unusual one, for in all the years that I have called at the Bank--ten, now--no, eleven since we first knew each other--Peter had seldom failed to be ready for our walk uptown when the old moon-faced clock high up on the wall above the stove pointed at four.
"I thought there was something up!" I cried. "What is it, Peter-- balance wrong?"
He did not answer, only waved his hand in reply, his bushy gray eyebrows moving slowly, like two shutters that opened and closed, as he scanned the lines of figures up and down, his long pen gripped tight between his thin, straight lips, as a dog carries a bone.
I never interrupt him when his brain

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