Patrick took notice and swung to the iron grating of the outer door.

You might peer in and beg ever so hard--unless, of course, you were a visitor like myself, and even then Peter would have to give his consent--you might peer through, I say, or tap on the glass, or you might plead that you were late and very sorry, but the ostrich egg never turned in its nest nor did the eyebrows vibrate.

Three o'clock was three o'clock at the Exeter, and everybody might go to the devil--financially, of course--before the rule would be broken.

Other banks in panicky times might keep a side door open until four, five or six--that is, the bronze-rail, marble-top, glass-front, certify-your-checks-as-early-as- ten-in-the-morning-without-a-penny-on-deposit kind of banks--but not the Exeter--that is, not with Peter's consent--and Peter was the Exeter so far as his department was concerned--and had been for nearly thirty years--twenty as bookkeeper, five as paying teller and five as receiving teller.
And the regularity and persistency of this clock! Not only did it announce the hours, but it sounded the halves and quarters, clearing its throat with a whirr like an admonitory cough before each utterance.
I had samples of its entire repertoire as I sat there: One...two...three...four...five--then half an hour later a whir-r and a single note.

"Half-past five," I said to myself.