The most imposing building in a certain country market town is the old Bank, so called familiarly to distinguish it from the new one.  The premises of the old Bank would be quite unapproached in grandeur, locally, were it not for the enterprise of the new establishment.  Nothing could be finer than the facade of the old Bank, which stands out clear and elegant in its fresh paint among the somewhat dingy houses and shops of the main street.  It is rather larger in size, more lofty, and has the advantage of being a few yards nearer to the railway station.  But the rival institution runs it very close.  It occupies a corner on the very verge of the market-place—­its door facing the farmer as he concludes his deal—­and it is within a minute of the best hotels, where much business is done.  It is equally white and clean with fresh paint, and equally elegant in design.

A stranger, upon a nice consideration of the circumstances, might find a difficulty in deciding on which to bestow his patronage; and perhaps the chief recommendation of the old establishment lies in the fact that it is the older of the two.  The value of antiquity was never better understood than in these modern days.  Shrewd men of business have observed that the quality of being ancient is the foundation of credit.  Men believe in that which has been long established.  Their fathers dealt there, they deal themselves, and if a new-comer takes up his residence he is advised to do likewise.

A visitor desirous of looking on the outside, at least of country banking, would naturally be conducted to the old Bank.  If it were an ordinary day, i.e. not a market or fair, he might stand on the pavement in front sunning himself without the least inconvenience from the passenger traffic.  He would see, on glancing Up and down the street, one or two aged cottage women going in or out of the grocer’s, a postman strolling round, and a distant policeman at the farthest corner.  A sprinkling of boys playing marbles at the side of the pavement, and two men loading a waggon with sacks of flour from a warehouse, complete the scene as far as human life is concerned.  There are dogs basking on doorsteps, larger dogs rambling with idleness in the slow sway of their tails, and overhead black swifts (whose nests are in the roofs of the higher houses) dash to and fro, uttering their shrill screech.

The outer door of the bank is wide open—­fastened back—­ostentatiously open, and up the passage another mahogany door, closed, bears a polished brazen plate with the word ‘Manager’ engraved upon it.  Everything within is large and massive.  The swing door itself yields with the slow motion of solidity, and unless you are agile as it closes in the rear, thrusts you forward like a strong gale.  The apartment is large and lofty:  there is room for a crowd, but at present there is no one at the counter.  It is long enough and broad enough for the business of twenty customers at once; so broad that the clerks on the other side are beyond arm’s reach.  But they have shovels with which to push the gold towards you, and in a small glass stand is a sponge kept constantly damp, across which the cashier draws his finger as he counts the silver, the slight moisture enabling him to sort the coin more swiftly.