The other took a turn towards the margin of the rug and back. "That doesn't help me," he protested. "That doesn't give me an idea. You used to be so full of fancies," he went on, somewhat pettishly; "you used to bring a book of poetry to read at lunch when we were kids outside there"--he nodded toward the counting-room. "You used to laugh at me for puzzling over discounts, and say I went about with blinders, like a horse, to shut out everything that was not right ahead. I never could imagine anything--I can't imagine ten millions now. How long would it be if it were all in dollar bills placed end to end? How big would it be if it were in two-cent postage stamps?" "It would take a little time to work that out," replied the other man respectfully, though not without a twinkle in his eye. "I can let you have a statement in half an hour." "Don't do it, then," rejoined the banker. "I'm sick of figures, and you never needed them when you used to make up fairy tales as we went roaming through the streets after the bank had closed." "I often make up fairy stories still," said Mr. Wattles, "after the bank has closed." "Do you?" demanded the other. "Do you still? And do you still take walks before going home to supper?" "Yes, when it does not rain." "And do you think it will be clear to-night?" Mr. Wattles laughed. "To-night I shall be late in getting off," he said, "because to-morrow is a holiday." "What holiday?" inquired Mr. Clatfield. "Christmas," said Mr. Wattles. "I don't pretend to keep track of all the holidays," said Mr. Clatfield. "No," said Mr. Wattles, "I suppose not." It was a busy day at the bank, and the city clocks had sounded six before the cashier set the time-locks in the vault and bade good-night to the watchman at the door. But if he was surprised to find an old companion waiting on the steps, his face did not betray the fact. "I thought I'd walk a little way with you," explained the banker, with an attempt at carelessness that overshot the mark. "All right," said Mr. Wattles, buttoning up his serviceable coat and bestowing a quick, chipmunk glance upon the weather. "You won't mind if I stop to get my collars?" A misty rain was falling, and the streets were filled with people hurrying home from work. As the two men fell in with the procession the banker gave an awkward little hop to catch the step. "I don't suppose you take your laundry to the same place still?" he speculated. "Oh, yes, the same old place," replied the other. "Mrs. Brennan's dead, of course, but Mary Ann still carries on the business." "You don't mean little Mary Ann?" "Yes, she's big Mary Ann now, and has five children of her own. Her husband was a switchman in the yards until he got run over by an engine two years ago."