pension of all business activities appeared to declare itself. By four o'clock Schuler's, the biggest store in town, had closed. Schuler was not there—he was closeted with Gaylord and Foster and other wiser heads—if there were any wiser—trying to make sure of understanding, trying to behave as rational beings instead of stripped savages. Their conference was in an upstairs room over the bank as affording greater privacy.
"There isn't a loan—there isn't a mortgage that I can foreclose," Gaylord was saying, "because—well, because the title isn't there—four hundred thousand loaned by the Savings Branch on real estate and I can't collect a dollar of it."
The banker turned to the window and gazed moodily out at the signs along the street, swinging so blandly unconscious that they irritated Gaylord. Didn't they know—the fools, Tuttle and Rogers, that that was not their drug store? Ryan, that that was not his plumbing shop? Ellison that "Oh, my Lord!" he groaned, and turned back to the group, as he recalled another phase. "The new improvement bonds! We'll never sell 'em now. And the Federal Reserve loans! Why, fellows, our credit is shot to pieces. It'll take years—years of litigation to"
"Aw, let's cool off until tomorrow and then see how it looks," urged Schuler.
"Tomorrow?" snorted Gaylord, angrily. "You fool! There ain't any tomorrow. Hark!" he interrupted himself and cocked a listening ear. "Hear that, will you?"
Up from the streets came the roar of the angry throng, massing, milling, menacing.
