An Uninvited Guest

It was nearly three o’clock on a hot summer’s day; the long polished counters of our bank, the Royal Domestic Bank, were crowded with customers – money was flowing in and out in the usual business like manner. From a raised desk in my private room, I, the manager of the Royal Domestic Bank, looked out on the busy scene with a certain pride and pleasure. The Royal Domestic was not a long established institution, and, without vanity, I may say that much of its prosperity and success is attributable to the zeal and experience of its manager. In corroboration of this statement, I might refer to the last printed report of the directors, laid before the stockholders at their last annual meeting, in which they are pleased to say—but after all, perhaps I may be thought guilty of undue egotism and conceit if I repeat the flattering terms in which they speak of me.

A clerk put his head inside my door.

“Mr. Thrapstow, sir, to speak to you.”

“Send him in. Robert,” I said.

Charles Thrapstow I had known from boyhood; we were raised in the same country town. The fact that his parents were of considerably higher status than mine, perhaps made our subsequent intimacy all the more pleasant to me, and caused me to set a value upon his good opinion greater than its intrinsic worth. Thrapstow was a stock broker, a very clever, pushing fellow, who had a reputation of possessing an excellent judgment and great good luck. At my request he had brought his account to our bank. It was a good account, he always kept a fair balance, and the cashier had never to look twice at his check.

Charlie, like everybody in business, occasionally wanted money. I had let him have advances at various times, of course amply covered by securities, advances which… Read More