On the doorstep of the local Bank--turning key in lock as he left the
premises--stood a man respectably dressed and large of build. It was
Mr Pamphlett, the Bank-Manager. Nicky-Nan thrust his hands in his
trouser-pockets and limped towards him.

"If you please, sir--"

Mr Pamphlett faced about, displaying a broad white waistcoat and a
ponderous gold watch-chain.

"Ah! Nanjivell?"

"If you please, sir--" Nicky-Nan, now balanced on his sound leg,
withdrew a hand from his pocket and touched his cap. "I've been
waitin' your convenience."

"Busy times," said Mr Pamphlett. "This Moratorium, you know. The
War makes itself felt, even in this little place."

If Nicky-Nan had known the meaning of the word Moratorium, it might
have given him an opening. But he did not, and so he stood dumb.
"You have come to say, I hope," hazarded Mr Pamphlett after a pause,
"that you don't intend to give me any more trouble? . . . You've
given me enough, you know. An Ejectment Order. . . . Still--if, at
the last, you've made up your mind to behave--"

"There's no other house, sir. If there was, and you'd let it to
me--"