The little man handed him a bill he had been holding in his hand. "By the way," he said as the cashier rang up the twenty cents, "Could you tell me the way to the Sarah Fish residence?" I pricked up my ears at that. "Why yes," the cashier said. "You go down to the stop sign and turn right two blocks. It's the big white place set back from the street, with a wide driveway that goes back to a four car garage. Let's see now. That was twenty cents. Twenty-five, fifty, one. Two, three. There you are. Don't forget, the big white house." "Thank you," the little man said. I watched him go to the door. It wasn't until he was out of sight that I did a double take. "Hey!" I said to the cashier. "What kind of a bill did that little guy give you?" "Why, a--a--Oh good Lord." I slid out of my seat at the counter and leaned over the cigar counter as the cashier rang up a no sale. He picked out the bill and held it in limp fingers. I took it and spread it on the glass counter. * * * * * It was a three dollar bill. There was a picture of Truman on it. I turned it over. On the back was a picture of an atomic mushroom cloud with a series of ellipses interlocking to form the popular conception of an atom. It looked like real money. It had the feel of real money. "Well," the cashier said philosophically. "I guess I'm out three dollars. His talking was what threw me off." I picked up the three dollar bill and squinted at the fine print. It said _Series of 1964_. The date on my newspaper on the counter beside my cold coffee was April 5, 1954. "I'll tell you what I'll do," I said. "I'll give you three dollars for it." "Oh no!" the cashier said quickly. "I can't do that. The law says I must turn all counterfeit money directly over to the nearest F.B.I. office." "Sure," I soothed. "Sure, I know that. But this isn't the same thing. A counterfeit is an imitation of real money--and there aren't any real three dollar bills." The cashier chuckled suddenly. "By gollies you're right," he said. "That means I can keep it. Think I will. I'm going to deposit it in the bank tomorrow morning. Just for a laugh. Ned Sparks'll fall off his high stool when he sees it." "I'll give you three and a half for it," I said. But I was already turning away as he shook his head. I knew the only way to get a three dollar bill was to catch up with the little man. Outside the drugstore I looked up the street the way the little man had gone. He wasn't in sight. I saw the stop sign a block away, and hurried toward it. It was Lincoln Avenue, in a part of Evanston that was just like a small town set off by itself, downstate instead of a northern suburb of Chicago. I followed the directions the cashier had given the little man. Turn right two blocks.