But for many years Amos had dreamed of being a great criminal, a master mind; of smashing through things like a Springfield bullet. But his .22 caliber soul had held him back. Amos usually figured out a perfect crime, dreamed that he was about to be hung, and discarded the plan.
On this certain day Amos closed the bank at a few minutes after three o’clock. He carried his hat in his hand, and his breathing was slightly irregular. He fairly slunk away from the bank, shuffling his feet softly, as though afraid his departure might be heard.
He covered the half-block to Ferdinand P. Putney’s office in record time, and found the lawyer at his desk, tilted back in a chair, his big feet atop a pile of dusty books on the desk. Amos slammed the door behind him and stood there, panting heavily. Ferdinand shifted his gaze from the book, which he had been reading, and looked reprovingly upon Amos.
“Well?” queried Ferdinand softly.
“Well!” squeaked Amos. It is likely he intended to thunder, but Amos’ vocal cords were all of the E-string variety. He came closer to the lawyer, his Adam’s-apple doing a series of convulsive leaps, as though trying to break its bounds.
Ferdinand closed the book and waited expectantly for Amos to go further in his conversation, which he did as soon as he had calmed his jerking throat.
“Putney!” he squeaked. “We’re ruined!”
Ferdinand Putney slowly lowered his big feet, placed the book on the table and stood up.
“This?” he said huskily, “is terrible. Just how are we ruined, Amos?”
“They—they didn’t strike oil!”