“The—there’s some mistake,” he managed to mutter. “It must be some other boy. Paul asked me to draw the money. Besides, it isn’t his money at all. It—it rightfully belongs to me.”
“You can draw no money on the order which you have forged,” said the cashier, sternly.
“Then give me back the book,” said Jerry, beginning to get frightened.
“I shall retain the book for the rightful owner,” said the official. “And now let me advise you never to come here again on any such errand, or I shall feel it my duty to hand you over to the police.”
Without another word old Jerry shambled out of the bank, with a scared look on his face. This reference to the police startled him. It had not occurred to him that he was doing anything of which the law could take cognizance. His exultation of the morning had quite passed away. He had flattered himself that his hoard would increase by forty dollars. Now he had found himself foiled in the attempt to convert Paul’s savings to his own use.
About six o’clock Paul returned to the humble home. Old Jerry was resting on the bed in the corner. He looked up nervously as the telegraph boy entered, and saw at once by the expression on Paul’s face that he knew all.
“Jerry,” said Paul, “why did you take my bank book?”
“I—I’m so poor, Paul,” whined Jerry, “I—I needed the money.”
“So you turned thief,” returned the boy, indignantly.
“The money was mine by right—you shouldn’t have kept it from me.”