Winnebago, was a kindly-enough, shrewd, small-town banker,
but to Ferdinand Brandeis and his wife his visits, growing
more and more frequent, typified all that was frightful,
presaged misery and despair. He would drop in on a bright
summer morning, perhaps, with a cheerful greeting. He would
stand for a moment at the front of the store, balancing
airily from toe to heel, and glancing about from shelf to
bin and back again in a large, speculative way. Then he
would begin to walk slowly and ruminatively about, his
shrewd little German eyes appraising the stock. He would
hum a little absent-minded tune as he walked, up one aisle
and down the next (there were only two), picking up a piece
of china there, turning it over to look at its stamp,
holding it up to the light, tapping it a bit with his
knuckles, and putting it down carefully before going
musically on down the aisle to the water sets, the lamps,
the stockings, the hardware, the toys. And so, his hands
behind his back, still humming, out the swinging screen door
and into the sunshine of Elm Street, leaving gloom and fear
behind him.

One year after Molly Brandeis took hold, Herman Walthers'
visits ceased, and in two years he used to rise to greet her
from his little cubbyhole when she came into the bank.

Which brings us to the plush photograph album. The plush
photograph album is a concrete example of what makes
business failure and success. More than that, its brief
history presents a complete characterization of Ferdinand
and Molly Brandeis.