“How do you do, Mr. Grinnell? I’m glad to see you,” he said cordially. There was no pretence about his cordiality; the man had on deposit two millions. But it was not this particular man’s deposit which caused the busy clerks to make mistakes in adding their rows of figures; they were accustomed to the fluctuating, semi-fictitious millions of the great stock-gamblers. It was that Mr. Dawson should be so cordial to any man.
“I am very well, thanks,” said the young man. “So are you, I can see.”
“You have good eyes. Well, what have you done now?” asked the president playfully.
“Deposited a little more.” It was said calmly, not with theatrical nonchalance.
“How much?” The president, naturally, was asking for information he could not be expected to have.
“A million this time.”
The president put his hand chummily on his customer’s shoulder. “Young man,” he said, in mock seriousness, “when will this nefarious work cease?”
“I’ll stop when you tell me you’d rather I went to some other bank,” answered Grinnell, smiling.
The president shook his head as if in despair.
“You are incorrigible. Well, come early and often. Drop in on me whenever you feel like it; glad to see you at any time.”