“No; it is not according to our rules to pay, except to the written order of the depositor.”
“I am glad of that,” said Paul. “Don’t pay it if he comes again.”
“We will not,” replied the cashier; and Paul left the building feeling greatly relieved.
Old Jerry ought to have known that there was very little chance of a forged order being honored, for the bank possessed Paul’s autograph signature on its books, making the fact of the forgery evident at once, but it sometimes happens that men sharp in some matters are very obtuse in others. This was the case with old Jerry in the present instance.
About two o’clock he entered the bank once more. Paul had not come home at the noon hour—he seldom did, being in the habit of dining at a restaurant, and the old man thought him still ignorant of the theft. He was anxious to draw the money before the telegraph boy learned that his book had been appropriated.
He had prepared an order, having taken one with him in blank, and made it out for forty dollars, signing it “Paul Parton.”
Armed with this, he walked up to the cashier’s window, and without a word presented it in the book.
The cashier recognized him instantly.
“Well,” he said, “what do you want?”
“The money,” answered the old man, his features working with cupidity.