Part 19 (1/2)

(”If you have read this story, it may be well to remind you that this is April 1st.”--ED. _Sunday Magazine_.)

THE MONEY METER

Hiram Clatfield, upon the threshold of his office, peered out into the counting-room in a manner difficult to a.s.sociate with the inscriptions on the plate-gla.s.s door half open at his back. ”Private” was printed there in gilded letters, and ”President,” but the tone of the president was almost that of one who asks a favor as he said:

”Mr. Wattles, if you should happen to be disengaged, I should like to speak with you a moment.”

The cas.h.i.+er, wheeling on his lofty-legged stool, gave one regretful glance toward a regiment of figures, a marching column six abreast from which he had been casting out the nines, and replied resignedly:

”I'm disengaged at present.”

”Then please come in,” said Mr. Clatfield, accepting the untruth with grat.i.tude. ”Come in and shut the door.”

The room marked ”President,” paneled in quartered oak much like the state apartment of a private car, contained a polished desk, six chairs with red morocco seats, a Turkish rug, and the portrait of a former president done in oil. Beneath the picture, upon a pedestal and protected by a dome of gla.s.s, stood a small machine which, from time to time, emitted jerky, nervous clicks, and printed mystic characters upon an endless paper tape.

The former president upon the wall smiled perpetually, with eyes directed to the plate-gla.s.s door, as though it pleased him to observe through it the double row of neat young men on lofty stools so well employed. Perhaps it pleased him better still to watch the little, bra.s.s-barred windows farther on, where countless faces came and went all day from ten till three--thin faces and fat, and old and young, and hands, innumerable hands, some to carry and some to fetch, but all to leave a tribute for whomever might be sitting at the polished desk.

”Please read this item, Mr. Wattles,” said the president, indicating with a well-kept finger-nail a paragraph in the _Morning Mercury_, and, putting on his gla.s.ses, Mr. Wattles read:

”Conservative estimates place the fortune of Hiram Clatfield at seven million dollars.”

At the same moment the small machine appeared to rouse itself.

”Con-ser-vat-ive--est-i-ma-tes--place--the--for-tune--of--Hi-ram-- Clat-field--at----” it seemed to repeat deliberately, as for dictation, and stopped.

”S.e.v.e.n.m.i.l.l.i.o.n.d.o.l.l.a.r.s,” concluded a typewriter in the counting-room beyond the plate-gla.s.s doors, and the sentence ended in the tinkle of the little bell which gives warning that a line is nearly finished.

Mr. Wattles, having laid the paper on the table, wiped his gla.s.ses with a pocket-handkerchief and held them to the light.

”Do you propose to take action in the matter?” he inquired. ”Is there anything I can do?”

Mr. Clatfield moved to the center of the rug and thrust both hands into his trousers' pockets.

”Wattles,” he said, ”is that thing true?”

”Not altogether,” said the other, betraying nothing in his tone beyond a wish for accuracy. ”I think it would be safe to say at least--allowing for fluctuations--ten million dollars.”

”Al-low-ing--for--fluc-tua-tions----” repeated the ticker.

”T.e.n.m.i.l.l.i.o.n.d.o.l.l.a.r.s,” the typewriter concluded.

Between the two men on the Turkish rug there was so little to choose that, with straw cylinders to protect his cuffs and a left coat sleeve somewhat marred by wiping pens, either might have been cas.h.i.+er, and without these tokens either might very well have been president. The banker was a trifle bald and gray about the temples. The other's hair was still erect and of a hue which had suggested ”Chipmunk” as a fitting nickname in his school days.

”Wattles,” said the banker slowly, ”what is ten million dollars?”

”Why, it's--it's a heap of money,” faltered the cas.h.i.+er.