“Over on Broadway,” said the Major.  “Go into one of the stores, and make somebody sell you one.  Pay anything—­I don’t care.”

So Montague went back, and entered a leather-goods store, where he saw several cane-seated chairs.  He was free to laugh then all he pleased; and he explained the situation to one of the clerks, who demurred at five dollars, but finally consented for ten dollars to take the risk of displeasing his employer.  For fifty cents more Montague found a boy to carry it, and he returned in triumph to his venerable friend.

“I never expected to see you in a position like this,” he remarked.  “I thought you always knew things in advance.”

“By the Lord, Montague!” muttered the other, “I’ve got a quarter of a million in this place.”

“I’ve got about one-fourth as much myself,” said Montague.

“What!” cried the Major.  “Then what are you doing?”

“I’m going to leave it in,” said Montague.  “I have reason to know that that report in the Despatch is simply a blunder, and that the institution is sound.”

“But, man, there’ll be a run on it!” sputtered the old gentleman.

“There will, if everybody behaves like you.  You don’t need your quarter of a million to pay for your lunch, do you?”

The Major was too much amazed to find a reply.

“You put your money in a trust company,” the other continued, “and you know that it only keeps five per cent reserve, and is liable to pay a hundred per cent of its deposits.  How can you expect it to do that?”

“I don’t expect it,” said the Major, grimly; “I expect to be among the five per cent.”  And he cast his eye up the line, and added, “I rather think I am.”

Montague went on ahead, and found his brother, with only about a score of people ahead of him.  Apparently not many of the depositors of the Trust Company read their newspapers before eight o’clock in the morning.

“Do you want a chair, too?” asked Montague.  “I just got one for the Major.”

“Is he here, too?” exclaimed Oliver.  “Good Heavens!  No, I don’t want a chair,” he added, “I’ll get through early.  But, Allan, tell me—­ what in the world is the matter?  Do you really mean that your money is still in here?”

“It’s here,” the other answered.  “There’s no use arguing about it—­come over to the office when you get your money.”

“I got the train just by half a minute,” said Oliver.  “Poor Bertie Stuyvesant didn’t get up in time, and he’s coming on a special—­he’s got about three hundred thousand in here.  It was to pay for his new yacht.”

“I guess some of the yacht-makers won’t be quite so busy from now on,” remarked the other, as he moved away.

That afternoon he heard the story of how General Prentice, as a director of the Gotham Trust, had voted that the institution should not close its doors, and then, as president of the Trust Company of the Republic, had sent over and cashed a check for a million dollars.  None of the newspapers printed that story, but it ran from mouth to mouth, and was soon the jest of the whole city.  Men said that it was this act of treachery which had taken the heart out of the Gotham Trust Company directors, and led to the closing of its doors.