Ovington's Bank by Stanley J. Weyman — Read

It was with a firmer tread that Clement went back to his desk in the bank. He had pleased his father and he was pleased with himself. Here at last was something to do. Here at last was something to fight. Here at last was mettle in the banking business that suited him; and not a mere counting of figures and reckoning of pennies, and taking in at four per cent. and putting out at eight. His gaze, passing over the ledger that lay before him, focussed itself on the unconscious customers beyond the counter. He had the air of challenging them, of defying them. They were the enemy. It was their folly, their greed, their selfishness, their insensate desire to save themselves, let who would perish, that menaced the bank, that threatened the security, the well-being, the happiness of better men. It was a battle and they were the enemy. He scowled at them. Supposing them to have sense, patience, unselfishness, there would be no battle and no danger. But he knew that they had it not in them. No, they would rush in at the first alarm, like a flock of silly sheep, and thrusting and pushing and trampling one another down, would run, each bent on his own safety, blindly on ruin.

From this moment the bank became to him a place of interest and color, instead of that which it had been. Where there was danger there was romance. Even Rodd, adding up a customer's pass-book, his face more thoughtful than usual, wore a halo, for he stood in peril. If the shutters went up Rodd would suffer with his betters. He would lose his place, he would be thrown on the world. He would lose, too, the trifle which he had on deposit in the bank. And even Rodd might have his plans and aims and ambitions, might be hoping for a rise, might be looking to marry some day-and some one!