“I wonder what’s the matter?” thought Sam, when he saw Gus go into the bank and come out again with the very long face he always wore when he was disappointed. “They ought certainly to have heard from that check by this time. Well, there’s one thing about it: Gus can’t get the money without my knowing it, because the only time he can get into the bank is when he goes to his dinner, and I shall always be on hand to watch him.” One day, after Gus had grown very impatient, and had begun to fear that his check had been lost on the way, and that he would never hear from it again, he happened to meet the cashier, who was also going home to his dinner. “It is all right at last, Gus,” said the latter, cheerfully. The boy’s gloomy expression of countenance, which he had worn for several days past, vanished at once. “Has the money come?” he asked as soon as he could speak. “No; but we have heard from the check, and will cash it for you whenever you please.” “And you won’t want my father’s signature?” “No. You fill out a draft—you’ll find blanks at the bank—making it payable to ‘self’ and sign your name to it, and I’ll give you the money. That’s all there is of it.” The cashier went on his way, and Gus looked up and down the streets and on all sides of him to make sure that Sam had not been a witness of the interview. But the latter was nowhere in sight. He had followed Gus at a distance, as he did every day, to satisfy himself that he did not go to the bank and draw the money, and then he turned toward his own home. He was fooled for once, and with this reflection to encourage him Gus walked slowly toward his father’s house, and making his way to his own room threw himself upon the bed. He did not answer the dinner-bell when it rang, and presently his mother, who had heard him enter the house, came up to see what was the matter. “Why, Augustus, are you ill?” she asked, with some anxiety. “No, ma’am; but I don’t want any dinner,” was the reply. Moral philosophy teaches us that we can speak the truth and at the same time tell a lie, and Gus certainly did on this occasion. He told nothing but the truth when he said that he was not sick and didn’t want any dinner; but the tone in which he said it, and his manner, made his mother believe that he was not well, and that was just what he wanted her to believe. He didn’t want any tea or toast either, he said. He only asked to be let alone so that he could rest until it was time for him to go down to the store again. But Gus knew very well that he would not be expected to go down to the store that afternoon, and he wasn’t. His father came up to see him, as soon as he had eaten his dinner, and told him to stay at home until he felt better, and Gus did stay until about half-past two o’clock. Then he got up and went down to the bank. The draft he made out was promptly cashed, and Gus, with the money in his pocket, crept slowly homeward and went to bed again.