And I went on and narrated my experience with the two national banks as recorded here.
"Well, by George!" ejaculated one of the men seated opposite to me, slapping his knee vigorously as I finished. "I'm an Ohio man, sir, and I blush for the State. I'll cash your check for you on your looks. How much do you want?"
"Twenty-five dollars," said I.
"All right," he said, pulling a well-filled wallet from his pocket, and counting out five five-dollar bills. "There's the stuff."
I thanked him, and drawing my check handed it over to him. He took it, and glanced at the signature.
"What?" he exploded. "The Idiot?"
This was the title of one of my books.
"Guilty!" said I.
"Here, you!" he cried, pulling his wallet again from his pocket, and holding it wide open, displaying a tempting bundle of ten-dollar bills within. "Here—just help yourself!"
And yet there are people in this world who ask if "literature" pays!