"I don't pretend to keep track of all the holidays," said Mr. Clatfield.
"No," said Mr. Wattles, "I suppose not."
It was a busy day at the bank, and the city clocks had sounded six before the cashier set the time-locks in the vault and bade good-night to the watchman at the door. But if he was surprised to find an old companion waiting on the steps, his face did not betray the fact.
"I thought I'd walk a little way with you," explained the banker, with an attempt at carelessness that overshot the mark.
"All right," said Mr. Wattles, buttoning up his serviceable coat and bestowing a quick, chipmunk glance upon the weather. "You won't mind if I stop to get my collars?"
A misty rain was falling, and the streets were filled with people hurrying home from work. As the two men fell in with the procession the banker gave an awkward little hop to catch the step.
"I don't suppose you take your laundry to the same place still?" he speculated.
"Oh, yes, the same old place," replied the other. "Mrs. Brennan's dead, of course, but Mary Ann still carries on the business."
"You don't mean little Mary Ann?"
"Yes, she's big Mary Ann now, and has five children of her own. Her husband was a switchman in the yards until he got run over by an engine two years ago."