He spent a moment upon his hair before a small, wavy, and diagonally cracked mirror, put on his blue cutaway coat and his derby hat and called, "Back in five minutes, Sam," casually into the open door of another room, where Sam Pickering wrestled with a fearless editorial on the need of better street lighting.

It seemed to Dave that five minutes would amply suffice for any talk a banker might be needing with him.
In the back office of the First National Bank he was presently ensconced at a shining table of mahogany across from Harvey D.Whipple and his father--the dubious trousers and worn shoes hidden beneath the table so that visibly he was all but well dressed.
"Smoke ?" asked Gideon, and proffered an open cigar case.
"Thanks," said Dave, "I'll smoke it later." He placed a cigar in the upper left-hand pocket of the eminently plaid waistcoat from whence already protruded the handle of a toothbrush and a fountain pen.

He preened his moustache, smoothed his hair, waited.
Harvey D.coughed in a promising manner, set a wire basket of papers square with the corners of the table, and began.
"We have been thinking, Mr.Cowan, my father and I--you see--" He talked on, but without appeasing Dave's curiosity.

Something about Dave's having boys, he gathered, and about the Whipples not having them; but it occurred to Dave again and again as Harvey wandered on that this was a discrepancy not in his power to correct.

Once a monstrous suspicion startled him--this conference, so called, was shaping into nothing less than a proposal on behalf of the person he had so carelessly saluted the day before.