down her paper.
“Dorsey,” she said.
Aunt Mamie’s son was older than Martha Ferguson’s, and instead of a football jersey and simulated Notre Dame pants he wore a chalk-stripe blue suit, a blue shirt, and blue-striped tie. He was already through his breakfast, waiting for another cup of coffee, the only product of the Syms kitchen that could be called even average.
“Dorsey.” Aunt Mamie tapped the table with a wing of her horn rimmed glasses that were as near a gavel as anything at hand. “Where is your father?”
Dorsey Syms turned the Maynard brown eyes and the Maynard smile toward his mother as he put down the sporting and financial section and pushed his plate back. He didn’t answer. Aunt Mamie’s questions were mostly rhetorical, or if not rhetorical, fully capable of being, and intended to be, answered from the chair.
“I hope,” Aunt Mamie said, glancing toward the clock on the big Empire sideboard, “that he hasn’t forgotten he’s supposed to look over the letter I’ve written. Gus Blake tampered with the last one I wrote. I can spell quite as well as anyone else. I was deeply mortified, the way it came out in the paper. Your father’s just dawdling this morning—dawdle, dawdle.”
Dorsey smiled at her. She’d forgotten she was late for breakfast herself. No one, however, could ever accuse her of dawdling.
“And just when I’ve got to see Doctor Mason,” his mother added. “I have a very severe headache. It must be my eyes.”
Only a stout effort on the part of a stout woman kept Aunt Mamie from putting her head on her hands and all three on the breakfast table. Dorsey smiled again and looked at his watch.
“Why don’t you just wait, Mother?” he said. “Maybe it’ll wear off. I mean, you don’t have to use your eyes much today or tomorrow. Maybe they’ll clear up if you rest them a little. You do too much.”
“Well, perhaps, Dorsey.”
He heard his father coming slowly down the stairs. He pushed his chair back. It was a dirty trick, going off, leaving his father to cope with one of his mother’s champagne eyestrains. But there’d be a lot to do at the bank this morning. There were at least ten people in town who’d hotfoot it there as soon as they opened their morning mail. Which meant work for him in the savings department. The ones who had savings would have to take them out. The others— Dorsey Syms shrugged mentally. That was their problem. Old Doc Wernitz must have had some wry sense of humor, he thought. Maybe he got a kick out of hanging on to a lot of checks people wrote after their sixth highball and forgot about. Maybe he’d really enjoyed bringing them all in in one batch, just toward the holidays and at the end of the month, when most Smithville bank accounts were on their last legs anyway. Notices had gone out to ten depositors, six with savings. An eleventh should have gone, to Janey Blake. But it hadn’t. And there was no telling how many the other two banks across Courthouse Square had sent out.
He listened to his father coming along the hall. His father banked over at the Merchants National. It was the one determined stand Dorsey had ever known Nelson Cadwallader Syms to make. He’d refused, even in face of the plea of family solidarity, to bank where his wife’s brother John Maynard was on the Board of Directors. Poor old Nelly, Dorsey thought. He was probably expecting a notice himself that morning, and was in no hurry of any kind to get to the office to get it.
Dorsey went around the table and dropped a kiss on his mother’s feverish cheek. “I’ve got to rush,” he said. He raised his voice to carry to the hall. “So long, Dad. I’ve got to shove. See you later.” He went out the other way, through the kitchen. He always hated to see his father beaten down.
The butler at the Rogerses’ country house out on the Bay glanced apprehensively at the paper propped up in front of the master of the house at the foot of the dining-table. Mr.
“Dorsey,” she said.
Aunt Mamie’s son was older than Martha Ferguson’s, and instead of a football jersey and simulated Notre Dame pants he wore a chalk-stripe blue suit, a blue shirt, and blue-striped tie. He was already through his breakfast, waiting for another cup of coffee, the only product of the Syms kitchen that could be called even average.
“Dorsey.” Aunt Mamie tapped the table with a wing of her horn rimmed glasses that were as near a gavel as anything at hand. “Where is your father?”
Dorsey Syms turned the Maynard brown eyes and the Maynard smile toward his mother as he put down the sporting and financial section and pushed his plate back. He didn’t answer. Aunt Mamie’s questions were mostly rhetorical, or if not rhetorical, fully capable of being, and intended to be, answered from the chair.
“I hope,” Aunt Mamie said, glancing toward the clock on the big Empire sideboard, “that he hasn’t forgotten he’s supposed to look over the letter I’ve written. Gus Blake tampered with the last one I wrote. I can spell quite as well as anyone else. I was deeply mortified, the way it came out in the paper. Your father’s just dawdling this morning—dawdle, dawdle.”
Dorsey smiled at her. She’d forgotten she was late for breakfast herself. No one, however, could ever accuse her of dawdling.
“And just when I’ve got to see Doctor Mason,” his mother added. “I have a very severe headache. It must be my eyes.”
Only a stout effort on the part of a stout woman kept Aunt Mamie from putting her head on her hands and all three on the breakfast table. Dorsey smiled again and looked at his watch.
“Why don’t you just wait, Mother?” he said. “Maybe it’ll wear off. I mean, you don’t have to use your eyes much today or tomorrow. Maybe they’ll clear up if you rest them a little. You do too much.”
“Well, perhaps, Dorsey.”
He heard his father coming slowly down the stairs. He pushed his chair back. It was a dirty trick, going off, leaving his father to cope with one of his mother’s champagne eyestrains. But there’d be a lot to do at the bank this morning. There were at least ten people in town who’d hotfoot it there as soon as they opened their morning mail. Which meant work for him in the savings department. The ones who had savings would have to take them out. The others— Dorsey Syms shrugged mentally. That was their problem. Old Doc Wernitz must have had some wry sense of humor, he thought. Maybe he got a kick out of hanging on to a lot of checks people wrote after their sixth highball and forgot about. Maybe he’d really enjoyed bringing them all in in one batch, just toward the holidays and at the end of the month, when most Smithville bank accounts were on their last legs anyway. Notices had gone out to ten depositors, six with savings. An eleventh should have gone, to Janey Blake. But it hadn’t. And there was no telling how many the other two banks across Courthouse Square had sent out.
He listened to his father coming along the hall. His father banked over at the Merchants National. It was the one determined stand Dorsey had ever known Nelson Cadwallader Syms to make. He’d refused, even in face of the plea of family solidarity, to bank where his wife’s brother John Maynard was on the Board of Directors. Poor old Nelly, Dorsey thought. He was probably expecting a notice himself that morning, and was in no hurry of any kind to get to the office to get it.
Dorsey went around the table and dropped a kiss on his mother’s feverish cheek. “I’ve got to rush,” he said. He raised his voice to carry to the hall. “So long, Dad. I’ve got to shove. See you later.” He went out the other way, through the kitchen. He always hated to see his father beaten down.
The butler at the Rogerses’ country house out on the Bay glanced apprehensively at the paper propped up in front of the master of the house at the foot of the dining-table. Mr.
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