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This morning he was late; the corridors nowhere echoed the rattle of his cash-box. So it occurred to me to entertain the crowd with a little imitation of Fillet. Seating myself at his desk, I frowned at a nervous junior, and addressed him thus: "N-now, my boy, how much b-b-bank do you want? Shilling? B-b-bank won't stand it. T-take sixpence. Sixpence not enough? Take ninepence and run away."
The Bramhallites enjoyed my impersonation. "N-now, Moles White, I mean how much b-b-bank do you want? Two shillings? B-bank won't stand it. Take three halfpence take it, Moles, and toddle away." There were roars of laughter, and a grin from White like the smile of a brontosaurus. "N-now, Doe, you don't want any this week you've come to pay in some, I suppose. You oh, damn!"
"C-c-cause if I could talk as well as I c-c-can think, I could make a fortune 'side of which old John Jacob Astor's would look like a p-p-penny savings b-b-bank!" "You could?" "You bet your sweet life I c-c-could. And I'm just keeping my eyes open for some young f-f-fellow to help me. "Better get Dave Corson," said the village wag from the rear of the crowd, and up went a wild shout of laughter.
"N-now, White, how much b-b-bank do you want?" Having heard this before, several boys tittered. Out of nervousness I tittered too, and cursed myself as I did so. Fillet looked at me as though he would have liked to repeat the flogging he had given me many years before. But the blushing boy in front of him was now seventeen, and taller than he.
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