"The bank is open for business," Ned announced, "but there must
be no rush. The building is not large enough to accommodate you
all. If you form a line, you will be admitted in turn. The bank
hopes to pay you all."

"Hopes!" cried a woman scornfully. "We can't eat hopes, young
man, nor yet pay the rent with it. Hopes indeed!"

But Ned had said all he cared to, and, with rather a white
face, he went back inside. The one door remained open and, with a
policeman on either side, a line of anxious depositors was slowly
formed. Tom watched them crowding and surging forward, all eager
to be first to get their cash out, lest there be not enough for
all. As he watched, the young inventor was aware that some was
signaling to him from the big window of the bank. He looked more
closely and saw Ned Newton beckoning to him, and the young
cashier was motioning Tom to go around to the rear, where a door
of the bank opened on a small alley. Wondering what was wanted,
Tom slowly ran his machine down the side street, and up the
alley. No one paid any attention to him.

A porter admitted the lad, and he made his way to the private
offices, where he knew his father and Mr. Damon would be. In the
corridors he could hear the murmur of the throng and the chink of
money, as the tellers paid it out.

"Well, Tom, this is bad business," remarked Mr. Swift, as he
saw his son. The lad noticed that Mr. Damon was in the telephone
booth.