“The good die young.”
“Oh, I’m not so good as to be in any danger,” laughed Phil. “I imagine I’m pretty full of faults, Eric, and you mustn’t quarrel with me because my faults are not the same as your own.”
After a time young Spaythe refrained from urging Phil to join in his amusements; but he seemed not to be offended and proved genial enough as they worked together at the bank. The two young men occupied a large room at the rear of the neat, one-story brick building. They worked perched upon high stools at a big double desk, where the books were spread out. Behind them was the grim, austere safe which was the repository of so much specie that Phil’s brain sometimes whirled at sight of the heaps of gold and bank notes. Mr. Spaythe’s private office was in front, and beside it was the brass-railed coop where Mr. Boothe sat all day dispensing or receiving money according to the requirements of the customers.
The cashier could not overhear their conversation, if the boys spoke moderately low, and he paid no attention to them, anyway, and seldom even glanced toward them.
“I’ve invited Marion to the boat race,” said Eric one day, soon after the party. “Are you going to pull stroke for our crew, Phil?”
“I suppose so.”
“Do your best, then, old man. I’m going to bet heavily on our crew.”
“I wouldn’t, Eric.”
“Why not?”
“The least little accident decides a boat race.”