"I can't to-night," replied the cashier. "I'm going to take dinner with a man named Briggs." Mr. Clatfield tried to fancy what this Mr. Briggs was like and what his dinner would be like, but in either case failed to make a picture because he never could imagine anything. "At least come with me to the door," he said. It was not far to where the iron lions crouched, and presently the two men stood before them shaking hands. "Good-night," said Mr. Clatfield. "This has been like old times. I suppose you'll not be at the bank to-morrow?" "I shall be there for an hour perhaps to finish up some work," replied the cashier. "Is there anything I can do?" He drew a memorandum book from his pocket. Holding the page in the light of a street lamp, his eyes fell on some small, neatly penciled figures. "By the way," he said, "I have figured out your problem. Ten million one-dollar bills placed end to end would reach one hundred and ten miles, forty-eight hundredths and a fraction." "Thank you," said Mr. Clatfield. "In two-cent stamps----" continued the cashier, but his employer interfered. "Never mind the stamps," he said. "To-morrow, if you have time, I should like you to draw three checks upon my private account." "Three checks----" repeated Mr. Wattles, preparing to make a note. "For twenty thousand each--no, make it fifty thousand each." "For fifty thousand dollars each--and payable to----" Mr. Clatfield hesitated an instant, then went on desperately: "One payable to big Mary Ann; one to the preaching fellow, and one--make it out to the girl with the freckles on her nose." The cashier paused, and for the first time in his long service ventured to dispute instructions. "Hiram," he said, "what harm have they done you?" Mr. Clatfield did not answer, but stood in silence, poking his cane into the iron lion's open mouth. THE GUEST OF HONOR "Letters of introduction!" Clara sighed. "One can't help wishing they were made misdemeanors like other lottery tickets." And this being her third remark of kindred import, curiosity became at least excusable. So Mrs. Penfield stroked a sable muff in silent sympathy. "We had one yesterday from Jack's Boston aunt," went on her charming hostess, "a Mrs. Bates, who is continually sending us spiritualists or people who paint miniatures, or Armenian refugees, just because we spent a week or so with her one summer when the children had the mumps. In Lent one does not mind, one rather looks for trials, but now one's dinner-table is really not one's own. Maude, do let me give you another cup of tea; it's awfully bad, I know; we have to buy it from the Dunbar girls. If one's friends would only not sell things one has to drink!"