“Well, then the entry must be correct.”
“I’ll ask Mr. Boothe.”
“Let him alone. It’s my affair.”
Phil said no more, but was still puzzled. When he came back to the bank after dinner he saw that Eric had laid a deposit slip on his desk. It showed that Samuel P. Martin had deposited $280 in Spaythe’s Bank. Phil thought the ink appeared to be quite fresh.
“You see I was right, after all,” observed Eric, glancing at Phil a little anxiously. “After you left I hunted up the deposit slip. Old Martin may have sold his team for three-eighty, but he only put two-eighty in the bank.”
A few days later Phil had occasion to ask:
“Where is the check for two hundred, drawn by Mrs. Randolph?”
“When did she draw it?” inquired Eric.
“This morning, according to the entry. And just now she has presented another check for fifty. I’ve just taken it from Mr. Boothe’s spindle.”
“Probably she didn’t get enough the first time,” remarked Eric, lazily puffing his cigarette, for his father was away from the office just then and he could stealthily indulge in his pet vice.