"Uh, Dave," Orville Snyder said.
"Yes?" I said, still looking at the things on the bench.
"Uh, I'm a little short again. Could you spare another twenty?"
I looked at him, startled. The woman who was his wife—she had drunk up the grocery money. My eyes flicked down toward his hip pocket. I was certain that in his wallet was a slip of paper with my—Thordsen's—name on it, and a figure after it. Fifty dollars, to be exact.
I took out my wallet and looked in it. I had two twenties and three fives and some ones. I extracted a twenty.
"Thanks, Dave," he said gratefully. He took out his wallet and put the twenty in it. I caught a glimpse of two of the identification cards. They were the ones I had examined so carefully last night.
"Aren't you going to mark it down?" I asked, smiling.
He looked at me queerly. "Mark it down?" he echoed. "I can remember. This makes seventy."
"Okay," I said. I went over to my desk. A few minutes later I watched from the corner of my eye as he extracted the folded slip and jotted swift marks on it. A notation of the new amount he owed me. And I wasn't the only one he owed money to—because of his wife.