"Oh, yes, he'll be down this morning," he began, as he rapidly and keenly went through envelope after envelope. "Ah, here's a draft on Potter, Jim—yes, his wife is doing nicely. No danger at all—Another on Smith and Weston, $2,600. Means a sweat for you, and don't——" "We'll all sweat enough before the day's over," came from Bill. "Look here, old man," laughed the cashier, with a sharp knitting of his brows, however; "I'll bet you half a dozen cigars" (two-fers were a stock wager among us) "that John makes fewer mistakes in cash to-day than you." "And you only affect cash in the clearings," put in Ted. "Don't want to bet," was the surly, almost inaudible response, and Bill wheeled his stool about again, and began making perfunctory scratches with his pen, the corner of his eye all the while on the door. "John!" he cried suddenly in the tone of a look-out on board a man-of-war off a hostile harbor. We all turned about and faced the door. Ted hastily folded up the morning paper, which was still in his hand, and put it behind him. Mr. Young gathered his letters into a pile before him and stood up, and Bill left his station, and took up a position back of the rest of us where he could spy without seeming to be interested. "With his wheel polished clean, and a new pair of stockings," he snickered, peering, on tiptoe, over my shoulder. This time no one offered to press the electric button, so John had to use his key. We could hear it click some time on the metal outside, before the bolt shot. However, John was the first to speak as he entered. His voice was even higher than ordinary and more forced; but there was a clear ring to it, and it did not waver. "Mornin', George," he said, simply, and then turned his attention to getting his wheel into the passage. "Hello, John!" cried the cashier, cheerily. "Coming out to congratulate you again. How's everything?" "Fine, George, fine!" answered the latter, straightening up to his full height, and with a firmer snap in his voice than ever. [Illustration: Bill Ryan.] "Blacked his shoes," muttered Bill, turning away and suppressing a grin. "Oh, Lord! and a clean shave, too." By this time the teller and the cashier had stopped hand-shaking, and the latter was pushing John in through the office door toward us. "The rest of the fellows want to shake hands with you, John," said he, slapping the disconcerted father on the back.