“I believe so,” assented Smalley, pursing up his lips.
With a smile all of careless pleasure with the world, Wix wrote the name of Clifford M. Gilman, and signed the certificate as president.
“Now, your check, Mr. Smalley, for twenty-five hundred, and the new La Salle Company is completely filled up, ready to start in business on a brand-new basis.”
With his lips still pursed, Smalley made out that check, and Wix shook hands with him most cordially as he left the room. Outside the door he chuckled. He was still smiling when he walked up to the cashier’s wicket, where young Gilman sat tense and white-faced. Wix indorsed the check, and handed it through the wicket.
“Here’s your twenty-five hundred, Cliff,” said he. “You can turn it over on the books of the bank as soon as you like.”
Gilman strove to voice his great relief, but his lips quivered and his eyes filled, and he could only turn away speechless. Wix had gone out, and Gilman was still holding in his nerveless fingers the check that had saved him, when Smalley appeared at his side.
“Ah,” said Smalley; “I see you have the check I gave Mr. Wix. Did he deposit?”
“No, sir,” replied Gilman, in a low voice; “he took currency.”