“Something over one hundred thousand,” was Clay’s reply, “but there is no proof that they belong to Don and Tom, you know.”
“That’s why I put them in bank,” Don cut in.
“If you think you ought to go back to Chicago, Tom,” Clay said, “I’ll furnish the money. But what can you do there?”
“He can go to the manager of the bank where I worked,” Don explained, “and tell him the whole story, and he’ll help. I believe that manager knows more about this matter than he pretends to!”
“How did you manage to get into that bank in the first place?” asked Alex. “It ain’t every street boy that gets such a chance.”
“Oh, I met one of the bank’s messengers one day, and he told me I might get a job there. Odd, wasn’t it?”
Clay broke into a roar of laughter, whereat Don assumed a manner of wounded dignity and walked away.
“Come back here, you foolish lad!” Clay called. “You may be sure that manager does know more about this matter than he pretends to know! The chances are that he had been keeping track of you for a long time, just to see what kind of a boy you were!”
“Then why didn’t he help me?” asked Don.
“How do you know what your uncle told him to do? I reckon this Uncle David of yours knew what he was about! He didn’t want you and Tom spoiled by inheriting a lot of money! He wanted you to dig it up!”