Phil followed her uncle into the bank and waited for him to walk round behind the cages. The dingy old room with its walnut counter and desks seemed at once a brighter place. The four clerks made it convenient to expose themselves to Phil's smile. She planted herself at the paying teller's cage and waited for Amzi's benevolent countenance to appear at the wicket. She held up her cardcase that he might have the full benefit of her splendor, extracted a small bit of paper, and passed it in to him. Seeing that it was not one of the familiar checks of the Montgomery Bank, he scrutinized it closely. It was a check of the "Journey's End" Magazine Company for fifty dollars, drawn upon a New York bank and payable to Phyllis Kirkwood. Amzi's face expressed no surprise. He threw it back and waved her away. "It's no good. Worthless!" "No good? You don't mean--" "No good, Miss Kirkwood--without your indorsement." "Why didn't you say so! I don't want to come as near sudden death as that again." He thrust out a pen so that she need not turn to the tall desk behind her to make the indorsement. He examined the signature carefully and blotted it. "One of your own efforts, Phil?" he asked carelessly. "Well, yes, you might say so. I suppose you'd call it that." "Poetry?" "A poor guess, Amy, and marks you as an ignorant person. Fifty dollars for a poem out of my green little cantaloupe? That's half what Milton got for 'Paradise Lost.' And the prices haven't gone up much since John died." She knew that his curiosity was aroused. This play of indifference was an old game of theirs, a part of the teasing to which she subjected him and which he encouraged. "Story?" "Absurd! Everybody in this town is writing a novel. Every time I go into the post-office I see scared-looking people getting their manuscripts weighed, and nervously looking round for fear of being caught. Nan says it's a kind of literary measles people have in Indiana. Aunt Josephine's cook writes poetry--burnt up a pan of biscuits the other day when she was trying to find a rhyme for 'Isaiah.'" "I wondered what caused me so much pain the last time I ate supper at Josie's. I must have swallowed a sonnet. What's your line, Phil?" "Zooelogy." "Possible?" "It was this way, Amy. You know that piece I read at the high-school commencement--'The Dogs of Main Street'?" "I do, Phil, I do; I nearly laughed myself to death."