THE MONEY METER
THE MONEY METER
Hiram Clatfield, upon the threshold of his office, peered out into the counting-room in a manner difficult to associate with the inscriptions on the plate-glass door half open at his back. "Private" was printed there in gilded letters, and "President," but the tone of the president was almost that of one who asks a favor as he said:
"Mr. Wattles, if you should happen to be disengaged, I should like to speak with you a moment."
The cashier, wheeling on his lofty-legged stool, gave one regretful glance toward a regiment of figures, a marching column six abreast from which he had been casting out the nines, and replied resignedly:
"I'm disengaged at present."
"Then please come in," said Mr. Clatfield, accepting the untruth with gratitude. "Come in and shut the door."