"Never mind the stamps," he said. "To-morrow, if you have time, I should like you to draw three checks upon my private account."
"Three checks——" repeated Mr. Wattles, preparing to make a note.
"For twenty thousand each—no, make it fifty thousand each."
"For fifty thousand dollars each—and payable to——"
Mr. Clatfield hesitated an instant, then went on desperately:
"One payable to big Mary Ann; one to the preaching fellow, and one—make it out to the girl with the freckles on her nose."
The cashier paused, and for the first time in his long service ventured to dispute instructions.
"Hiram," he said, "what harm have they done you?"
Mr. Clatfield did not answer, but stood in silence, poking his cane into the iron lion's open mouth.