Nationwide Bank Screening

"Miss Emily, you've worked hard these past few days too."

"Not at all, Mr. Feilan. Compared to all of you, the work I've done hardly counts for anything."

Emily's gaze fell on Feilan's face.

This man before her had, over this period, become known throughout the Treasury Department by word of mouth—for his scheduling and planning, his command of the bill's provisions, and even his fierce negotiations with those financial conglomerates.

For a twenty-five-year-old to reach a level that left the Treasury Secretary, the Assistant Secretary, and so many officials sighing in admiration, that was astonishing in any era.

Perhaps realizing she had stared for too long, Emily lowered her eyes slightly and added, "And... it isn't just me. Everyone in the Treasury Department has been saying that it was fortunate to have you. Otherwise, no one knows what this country would have done."

Feilan fell silent for a second, then gently shook his head. "Miss Emily, you are the ones who have truly worked hard. I merely moved my lips and offered a few suggestions. It was Ballantine, Hugh, and employees like you who turned those suggestions into actual provisions, figures, and implementation plans."

"Without you, all my plans and ideas would forever remain nothing but ideas."

A man who was the president's nephew, who possessed talent that left even the Treasury Secretary feeling inferior, and who had just accomplished something worthy of being recorded in history.

Yet on this morning, he stood by the window smoking and told an ordinary female employee: you are the ones who have truly worked hard.

Emily felt her heart skip a beat.

She hurriedly suppressed that strange feeling and said seriously, "By the way, Mr. Feilan, Mr. Ballantine should be arriving soon. Why don't you go back and rest first? I'll call you when he arrives."

Feilan shook his head. "I'll just wait for him."

"Alright. I'll be outside. If you need anything, just call."

"Mhm."

Feilan watched her retreating figure, lifted the cup of coffee, and took a sip.

The temperature was perfect—not too hot, not too cold. Emily had clearly timed it precisely and brought it over at the best moment to drink it.

At seven in the morning, Ballantine arrived at the Treasury Building.

Today, he had changed into a clean shirt, shaved his beard completely, and combed his hair until not a strand was out of place.

After a night of rest, the exhausted figure who had collapsed onto a sofa after the bill passed had been completely renewed, his eyes gleaming with vigorous energy.

"Mr. Ballantine!"

Emily poked her head out from her post in the lobby and called to him.

Ballantine paused. "Good morning, Emily."

Emily pointed toward the conference room at the end of the corridor. "Mr. Feilan has been working in your office all night. He's still waiting for you."

Ballantine's expression changed instantly. Without asking another question, he spun around and ran toward his office.

When he pushed open the door, Feilan was sitting behind his desk, a stack of documents spread before him and a pen in his hand, seemingly checking something.

Hearing the door open, Feilan looked up. "How was it, Ballantine? Rested enough?"

Ballantine strode over, his face full of apology. "I'm sorry. I slept too deeply. I should have come earlier."

"It's alright. You needed the rest anyway. Come, take a look at this."

Feilan pushed the stack of documents before him toward Ballantine.

Ballantine lowered his head and looked at the documents.

The title on the cover read: <Bank Reopening Schedule and Classification Implementation Plan>

He opened the first page and began to skim through it quickly.

Feilan's voice sounded beside him. "I've organized the reopening timeline and classification criteria. Look it over. If there are no problems, start the implementation process immediately."

Ballantine nodded, his gaze continuing downward.

Review procedures... methods for issuing reopening licenses... the Reconstruction Finance Corporation's capital injection coordination process...

Everything was clear and reasonable.

Then he turned to the final page, which concerned the banks' reopening dates.

The earliest was March 13. The latest was March 15.

His brows furrowed.

On March 5, the president had promised people across the nation in his first Fireside Chat: the bank holiday would not last more than a week, and the New Deal would get the banks reopened as quickly as possible.

On March 9, the bill had officially passed.

Logically, the one-week promise could have extended as late as March 17.

Today was March 10. They should have had a full seven days.

But Feilan had set the date at the 15th—two days early.

Ballantine's fingers lingered over the date for a long time.

He knew all too well what those two days meant.

There were thousands of banks across the country that needed to be reviewed.

Every bank required at least one examiner to open its books, check its loans, and assess its assets.

Two days earlier meant the pressure on every stage would multiply.

He looked up at Feilan.

Feilan was watching him, waiting for his answer.

Ballantine opened his mouth, wanting to say, "There's a problem. The schedule is too tight."

But he did not say it.

Because he understood one thing: Feilan had not done this out of ignorance. He must have had his reasons.

"No problem. Leave it to me."

Feilan nodded, rose to his feet, and walked out.

In the lobby, Emily stood by the hot water station, holding two freshly brewed cups of coffee.

When she saw Feilan emerge from Ballantine's office, her heart involuntarily skipped another beat.

She wanted to step forward and say something, but for a moment, she did not know what to say. Her feet seemed nailed to the floor.

In the end, she simply stood there, watching Feilan walk step by step toward the stairwell and disappear into it.

Emily lowered her eyes to the coffee in her hands and let out a soft sigh.

Over the following days, the atmosphere in the Treasury Building was like a tightly drawn bowstring.

All bank examiners were urgently summoned and given unified training in the building's largest hall.

Ballantine stood on the stage, emphasizing the review standards, classification principles, and time points again and again.

More than a hundred people sat packed tightly below, every one of them grim-faced and clutching a thick examination manual.

Once the training was over, they set out.

They took trains and cars, rushing to every corner of the country.

They had only one task: enter those closed banks, open the books, inspect the loans, verify the assets, and then reach a conclusion.

Could this bank live, or should it die?

The healthy ones would receive licenses and be permitted to reopen.

The critically ill ones would receive capital injections from the Reconstruction Finance Corporation or be taken over.

The dead ones would be shut down and liquidated directly, with the federal government covering the depositors' money.

No one counted how many miles these people traveled over those days, how many pages of ledgers they turned, or how much hair they lost.

But everyone knew that boxes upon boxes of reports arrived in Washington from all over the country every day, new data was compiled onto the desks of Feilan, William, Ballantine, and the others every day, and new problems required overnight meetings every day.

But no one complained.

Because everyone knew that every minute faster they moved meant one family could recover its savings one minute sooner.