"That's what the president was callin' it. I call it dough. I got the book." And Pete dug into his pocket again, watching Andover's face as that astonished individual glanced at the deposit to Pete's credit.
"Well, you're the limit!"—and the doctor whistled. "What will you spring next?"
"Oh, it's mine, all right. A friend was leavin' it to me. He's crossed over."
"I s-e-e. Twenty-four thousand dollars! Young man, that's more money than I ever had at one time in my life."
"Same here,"—and Pete grinned. "But it don't worry me none."
"I'll make out the check for you." And Andover pulled out his fountain pen and stepped over to the auctioneer's stand. Pete signed the check and handed it to the auctioneer.
"Don't know this man," said the auctioneer, as he glanced at the signature.
"I'll endorse it," volunteered Andover quickly.
"All right, Doc."
And Andover, whose account was as close to being overdrawn as it could be and still remain an account, endorsed the check of a man worth twenty-four thousand-odd dollars, and his endorsement was satisfactory to the auctioneer. So much for professional egoism and six-cylinder prestige.