Old Jerry ought to have known that there was very little chance of a forged order being honored, for the bank possessed Paul’s autograph signature on its books, making the fact of the forgery evident at once, but it sometimes happens that men sharp in some matters are very obtuse in others. This was the case with old Jerry in the present instance. About two o’clock he entered the bank once more. Paul had not come home at the noon hour--he seldom did, being in the habit of dining at a restaurant, and the old man thought him still ignorant of the theft. He was anxious to draw the money before the telegraph boy learned that his book had been appropriated. He had prepared an order, having taken one with him in blank, and made it out for forty dollars, signing it “Paul Parton.” Armed with this, he walked up to the cashier’s window, and without a word presented it in the book. The cashier recognized him instantly. “Well,” he said, “what do you want?” “The money,” answered the old man, his features working with cupidity. “You were here this morning?” “Y--yes.” “I told you you could not draw out the money on your own order.” “This is Paul’s order,” returned Jerry, with unblushing falsehood. “Did he write it?” “Y--yes.” “I thought you said he was occupied by business.” “He--he came home at noon, and wrote the order.” “That is false!” said the cashier, sternly. “The boy has been here to report that his book has been stolen, and forbade us to pay out any money on it.” The old man’s face was the picture of dismay. “The--there’s some mistake,” he managed to mutter. “It must be some other boy. Paul asked me to draw the money. Besides, it isn’t his money at all. It--it rightfully belongs to me.” “You can draw no money on the order which you have forged,” said the cashier, sternly. “Then give me back the book,” said Jerry, beginning to get frightened. “I shall retain the book for the rightful owner,” said the official. “And now let me advise you never to come here again on any such errand, or I shall feel it my duty to hand you over to the police.” Without another word old Jerry shambled out of the bank, with a scared look on his face. This reference to the police startled him. It had not occurred to him that he was doing anything of which the law could take cognizance. His exultation of the morning had quite passed away. He had flattered himself that his hoard would increase by forty dollars. Now he had found himself foiled in the attempt to convert Paul’s savings to his own use. About six o’clock Paul returned to the humble home. Old Jerry was resting on the bed in the corner. He looked up nervously as the telegraph boy entered, and saw at once by the expression on Paul’s face that he knew all. “Jerry,” said Paul, “why did you take my bank book?” “I--I’m so poor, Paul,” whined Jerry, “I--I needed the money.” “So you turned thief,” returned the boy, indignantly. “The money was mine by right--you shouldn’t have kept it from me.”