All this encomium was given in a high, cracked voice as the cashier
opened the door and turned the negroes into the bank. Tump, who stood
with his hat off, listening to all the cashier had to say, said he
thought so, too.

The shabby interior of the little bank, the shabby little banker,
renewed that sense of disillusion that pervaded Peter's home-coming. In
Boston the mulatto had done his slight banking business in a white
marble structure with tellers of machine-like briskness and neatness.

Mr. Hooker strolled around into his grill-cage; when he was thoroughly
ensconced he began business in his high voice:

"You came to see me about that land, Peter?"

Yes, sir."

"Sorry to tell you, Peter, you are not back in time to get the Tomwit
place."

Peter came out of his musing over the Boston banks with a sense of
bewilderment.

"How's that? why, I bought that land--"

"But you paid nothing for your option, Siner."

"I had a clear-cut understanding with Mr. Tomwit--"

Mr. Hooker smiled a smile that brought out sharp wrinkles around the