"Wattles," he said, "is that thing true?"
"Not altogether," said the other, betraying nothing in his tone beyond a wish for accuracy. "I think it would be safe to say at least—allowing for fluctuations—ten million dollars."
"Al-low-ing—for—fluc-tua-tions——" repeated the ticker.
"T.e.n.m.i.l.l.i.o.n.d.o.l.l.a.r.s," the typewriter concluded.
Between the two men on the Turkish rug there was so little to choose that, with straw cylinders to protect his cuffs and a left coat sleeve somewhat marred by wiping pens, either might have been cashier, and without these tokens either might very well have been president. The banker was a trifle bald and gray about the temples. The other's hair was still erect and of a hue which had suggested "Chipmunk" as a fitting nickname in his school days.
"Wattles," said the banker slowly, "what is ten million dollars?"
"Why, it's—it's a heap of money," faltered the cashier.
The other took a turn towards the margin of the rug and back.
"That doesn't help me," he protested. "That doesn't give me an idea. You used to be so full of fancies," he went on, somewhat pettishly; "you used to bring a book of poetry to read at lunch when we were kids outside there"—he nodded toward the counting-room. "You used to laugh at me for puzzling over discounts, and say I went about with blinders, like a horse, to shut out everything that was not right ahead. I never could imagine anything—I can't imagine ten millions now. How long would it be if it were all in dollar bills placed end to end? How big would it be if it were in two-cent postage stamps?"
"It would take a little time to work that out," replied the other man respectfully, though not without a twinkle in his eye. "I can let you have a statement in half an hour."