Walter Prescott took Grandpa’s rough hand in both of his and held it. “Harold,” he said, his voice thick, “I have waited forty years to thank you properly.” The lobby went quiet. Prescott turned to the guard. “Step away from this man,” he said, “and apologize.” The guard’s face drained of color, and he stammered a sorry. Then Prescott faced the whole room and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, this farmer saved my bank.”

Customers stopped sipping their coffee. Prescott pointed toward a framed photograph near the vault, which I had walked past a hundred times. It showed a young man shaking hands with a farmer in muddy overalls. “That is Harold Whitfield,” he said, “and before he leaves today, you will hear exactly why his name is on that wall.” The teller had left, and her counter stood empty.