"Take them over to the express office, and I'll take your word for the count, Bob. Tell them I'll send over the shipping directions later." "How about the grain sacks?" asked Bob. "The turtles are mine, but the grain sacks belong to Uncle Joe, and I'll have to charge you extra for them unless you guarantee that they'll be returned." "I'll guarantee to have them returned," said the banker, "but tell me, Bob, how in the world did you catch sixty-three turtles since Saturday afternoon?" "Uncle Joe drained the pond yesterday," replied Bob, smiling back at them as he started for the express office. A half hour later he walked into the bank and stepping up to the cashier's window asked for the president. "He's in a conference in the directors' room," replied the cashier. "Are you Bob Williams?" "Yes," he replied. "Come this way," he said. "The president left word to have you shown in as soon as you returned. Turtles seem to be biting pretty good this weather," he laughed, as he conducted him to a small room in the rear of the bank. Bob had never had much to do with banks; indeed, he could count on the fingers of one hand all the times he had ever been inside of one, and as to a directors' private room, he did not even know there was such a place, let alone ever having been in one. It was not to be wondered at then that he was embarrassed when he entered the room a moment later and saw the president and his friend seated in comfortable leather chairs before a large mahogany table. "Back already, Bob?" asked the banker. "I don't suppose you thought to inquire how much the express charges will be on those turtles to Pittsburgh?" "Yes, I did. They weighed 378 pounds, and the rate is 75 cents per hundred pounds--that makes $2.63," he replied, drawing a small notebook from his pocket and consulting a memorandum he had made. "Do you always figure out things?" asked the banker, apparently much interested that Bob had taken the trouble to find out the rate and figure the cost of the expressage to Pittsburgh. "I do most always," he answered. "I learned to do that selling chickens and keeping account of the milk Gurney gives." "Don't you keep a record of the milk all your cows give?" asked Mr. Dow. "Oh, Gurney is our cow at home--not one of Uncle Joe's cows. Gurney's a purebred with a pedigree," he declared proudly. "When are you going to start keeping a record of the cows on the farm, Bob?" asked the banker. "I don't know," replied Bob. "Uncle Joe don't believe in it yet. He thinks it's a waste of time, and he always laughs when I tell him that it is the only way to find out if a cow's worth her keep, but," he added smiling, "he drained the pond and he didn't believe in that two days ago." "I suppose you want the money for the turtles, Bob," said the banker, getting back to the main subject. "Well, yes," he said, "but who's buying them, Mr. White--you or Mr. Dow?" "Ha, ha," laughed the banker. "This is where you get stuck, Al."