“Look on the other side.” Rosenstein looked. Staring him in the face was: “I owe Mister Casey thirty-six dollars. I. Rosenstein.” The writing was undeniably his. And suddenly there came to him a dim, distant, dreamlike recollection of standing upon a mountain-top with a band of music playing around him and a Mr. Casey handing him some money.
“I thought that was an old dream,” he muttered to himself. Then, turning to the stranger, he asked, “Who are you?”
“Me?” said the stranger, in surprise; “why, I’m Casey—T. Casey, of Casey’s café. You told me to come as soon as I needed the——”
“Hush!” cried Rosenstein. “Never mind any more.” He opened a safe, took out the money, and paid Mr. Casey. When the latter had gone Rosenstein called the bookkeeper aside, and, in a fearful tone, whispered in his ear:
“Ach! I am so glad when I think that I didn’t, open the safe yesterday.” The bookkeeper looked at him in surprise.
“You tried, sir,” he said. “Don’t you remember when you said, ‘The numbers won’t stand still,’ and asked me if I couldn’t open it? And I told you I didn’t know the combination?”
Rosenstein gazed upon him in horror. The room became close. He went out and stood in the doorway, gasping for breath. In the street, directly in front of the store, stood a white horse. A seedy-looking individual stood on the curb holding the halter and gazing expectantly at Rosenstein.
“Good-morning, boss!” he cried, cheerfully.
Rosenstein glared at him. “Go away!” he cried. “I don’t allow horses to stand in front of my store. Take him somewhere else.”
“I’ll take him anywhere ye say, boss,” said the man, touching his cap. “But ye haven’t paid for him yet.”