A queer trembling seized Peter. The little banker turned to a fantastic caricature of a man. His hatchet face, close-set eyes, harsh, straight hair, and squeaky voice made him seem like some prickly, dried-up gnome a man sees in a fever.
At that moment the little wicket-door of the window opened under the pressure of Peter's shoulder. Inside on the desk, lay neat piles of bills of all denominations, ready to be placed in the vault. In a nervous tremor Peter dropped in his blue-covered deed and picked up a hundred-dollar bill.
“I—I won't trade,” he jibbered. “It—it wasn't my money. Here's your deed!” Peter was moving away. He felt a terrific impulse to run, but he walked.
The banker straightened abruptly. “Stop there, Peter!” he screeched.
At that moment Dawson Bobbs lounged in at the door, with his perpetual grin balling up his broad red face. He had a toothpick, in his mouth.
“'S matter?” he asked casually.
“Peter there,” said the banker, with a pale, sharp face, “doesn't want to stick to his trade. He is just walking off with one of my hundred- dollar bills.”
“Sick o' yo' deal, Peter?” inquired Bobbs, smiling and shifting the toothpick. He bit down on it. “Well, whut-chu want done, Henry?”
“Oh,” hesitated the cashier in a quandary, “nothing, I suppose. Siner was excited; you know how niggers
