CHAPTER XV.
TOM GETS SOME MONEY.
I have often quoted our leader as saying that Mr. Wallace was a man whom he could afford to trust, seeing that he had the handling of a thousand dollars or two of his money. In point of fact, he had more than that. He had two hundred thousand dollars of money in his hands that Mr. Chisholm’s signature was good for—not banknotes, for they were not as good then as they are now, but specie; and when a man put specie in the bank, he always wanted to get the same when he signed a check. The bank was not a great way off, and in a few minutes we were standing in the presence of the cashier.
“Is Mr. Wallace in?” asked Mr. Chisholm, gazing over the heads of three or four men who had come there to do business.
“Step right into his private office,” said the cashier. “He is waiting for you.”
The private office was a little room that opened off the rear of the bank, and when we filed in you couldn’t have gotten another man in edgeways. Mr. Wallace was engaged with some papers, but laid them all down when he heard our big boots clattering on the floor.
“Hallo, Chisholm!” said he. “Well, you found ’em, didn’t you? Are these men all remembered in the will? Where’s the boy? Sit down.”
“I don’t see much chance to sit down here,” said Mr. Chisholm, looking around. “But, if it suits you just as well, I won’t sit. Most of these men are remembered in the will, and some of ’em aint. I brought ’em along with me so as to give me plenty of backing. This thing of probating wills aint what it’s cracked up to be.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Mr. Wallace.
“We found that little surrogate like you was telling me of, and he won’t let me have the will. Said he would lock it up, and it would be safe.”
“That’s all right. Supposing you should die to-morrow and the will should fall into the hands of some dishonest person. Where would you be? The will is there, and anybody can get a copy of it; but nobody can touch the will itself.”