I


That afternoon Mr. Prohack just got back to his bank before closing
time. He had negligently declined to comprehend a very discreet hint
from Mr. Percy Smathe that if he desired ready money he could have
it--in bulk. Nevertheless he did desire to feel more money than usual in
his pocket, and he satisfied this desire at the bank, where the
September quarter of his annual salary lay almost intact. His bank was
near Hanover Square, a situation inconvenient for him, but he had chosen
that particular branch because its manager happened to be a friend of
his. The Prohack account did no good to the manager personally, and only
infinitesimal good to the vast corporation of which the branch-manager
was the well-dressed, well-spoken serf. The corporation was a sort of
sponge prodigiously absorbent but incapable of being squeezed. The
manager could not be of the slightest use to Mr. Prohack in a financial
crisis, for the reason that he was empowered to give no accommodation
whatever without the consent of the head office. Still, Mr. Prohack,
being a vigorous sentimentalist, as all truly wise men are, liked to
bank with a friend. On the present occasion he saw the branch-manager,
Insott by name, explained that he wanted some advice, and made an
appointment to meet the latter at the latter's club, the Oriental, at
six-thirty.

Thereupon he returned to the Treasury, and from mere high fantasy spread
the interesting news that he had broken a back tooth at lunch and had
had to visit his dentist at Putney. His colleague, Hunter, remarked to
him that he seemed strangely gay for a man with a broken tooth, and Mr.
Prohack answered that a philosopher always had resources of fortitude