Starr picked up some of them. They were iron; each disk was perforated.
There were many canvas sacks near the heap of disks; the sacks were ripped and empty. Mr. Starr secured one of them. Its mouth was closed with the seal with which specie sacks are usually secured.
But Mr. Starr saw something else in the corner, an object at which he peered; the gloom made the results of his scrutiny uncertain. He stooped and picked up that object, making it the third of the trinity of exhibits. It was a large square of pasteboard, the backing of an advertising calendar. Starr carried it to the lamp on the table. There was writing on the placard. The characters were large and sprawling. The bank examiner tapped his finger on the writing, calling for the attention of the anguished president. The legend read:
This is a hell of a bank!
“Britt, if this is a sample of your whole stock of specie,” Starr rumbled, holding a disk between thumb and forefinger, “the profanity is sort of excused by the emphasis needed. I really think I would have been obliged to say the same, after counting up.”
“I can't understand it,” the president muttered.
“Did you suppose you carried actual coin in those bags?”
“Yes—gold and some silver.”
“Had you counted it?”
“I left the checking up to the cashier.”