PROPERTY OF JAMES B. ROBISON
To be Opened by Richards & Tuttle In Case of Sudden Death
“What do you think?” asked Richards.
“You really mean do I advise you to open it, don't you?” asked Kidder..
“Not exactly; but—”
“Of course,” said the newspaper man, “it does not say it is not to be opened in case of living. That is sufficient excuse—that and your curiosity.”
“I don't like to open it,” said Richards, doubtfully.
“Don't!”
“Still, I'd like to know what's inside.”
“Then open it.”
“I don't think I have a right to.”
“Don't, then!”
“Oh, shut up! I won't open it! I don't know whether to take the account. You don't know anything about this man—”
“You broker fellows make me tired—posing as careful business men. All Robison has to do is to go to any of your branch offices or anybody's branch office, say his name is W. Jones and that he keeps a cigar-store in Hackensack or Flatbush, and your branch manager will never let him get away. And afore-mentioned manager will swear, if you should be so mean as to ask who W. Jones is, that he and W. J. went to school together—known him for years!”
“After all,” said Richards, a trifle defiantly, “there is no reason why I shouldn't do business for Robison that you know of?”
“Not that I know of—but if he buncoes you out of a big wad don't blame me.”
“He is welcome to anything he can make out of us,” smiled Richards, grimly, and Kidder laughed so heartily that the broker looked pleased with himself and his witticism. He rang for the cashier, gave him the one hundred thousand dollars, and had the amount credited to James B. Robison, address unknown.