The immemorial traditions of Old Spain, backed by the counsel of a brazen
sun, made a last stand against the inexorable centuries: Tucson was at
siesta; noonday lull was drowsy in the corridors of the Merchants and
Miners Bank. Green shades along the south guarded the cool and quiet
spaciousness of the Merchants and Miners, flooded with clear white light
from the northern windows. In the lobby a single client, leaning on the
sill at the note-teller's window, meekly awaited the convenience of the
office force.

The Castilian influence had reduced the office force, at this ebb hour of
business, to a spruce, shirt-sleeved young man, green-vizored as to his
eyes, seated at a mid-office desk, quite engrossed with mysterious
clerical matters.

The office force had glanced up at Mr. Johnson's first entrance, but only
to resume its work at once. Such industry is not the custom; among the
assets of any bank, courtesy is the most indispensable item. Mr. Johnson
was not unversed in the ways of urbanity; the purposed and palpable
incivility was not wasted upon him; nor yet the expression conveyed by
the back of the indefatigable clerical person--a humped, reluctant, and
rebellious back. If ever a back steeled itself to carry out a distasteful
task according to instructions, this was that back. Mr. Pete Johnson
sighed in sympathy.

The minutes droned by. A clock, of hitherto unassuming habit, became
clamorous; it echoed along the dreaming corridors. Mr. Johnson sighed
again.