("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 associate with the inscriptions on the plate-glass 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 cashier, 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 gratitude. "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 glass, 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-glass 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, brass-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 glasses, 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-glass 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 glasses 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 cashier, 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 cashier.
The other took a turn towards the margin of the rug and back.
"That doesn't help me," he protested. "That doesn't give me an idea. You used to be so full of fancies," he went on, somewhat pettishly; "you used to bring a book of poetry to read at lunch when we were kids outside there"--he nodded toward the counting-room. "You used to laugh at me for puzzling over discounts, and say I went about with blinders, like a horse, to shut out everything that was not right ahead. I never could imagine anything--I can't imagine ten millions now. How long would it be if it were all in dollar bills placed end to end? How big would it be if it were in two-cent postage stamps?"
"It would take a little time to work that out," replied the other man respectfully, though not without a twinkle in his eye. "I can let you have a statement in half an hour."
"Don't do it, then," rejoined the banker. "I'm sick of figures, and you never needed them when you used to make up fairy tales as we went roaming through the streets after the bank had closed."
"I often make up fairy stories still," said Mr. Wattles, "after the bank has closed."
"Do you?" demanded the other. "Do you still? And do you still take walks before going home to supper?"
"Yes, when it does not rain."
"And do you think it will be clear to-night?"
Mr. Wattles laughed.
"To-night I shall be late in getting off," he said, "because to-morrow is a holiday."
"What holiday?" inquired Mr. Clatfield.
"Christmas," said Mr. Wattles.
"I don't pretend to keep track of all the holidays," said Mr. Clatfield.
"No," said Mr. Wattles, "I suppose not."
It was a busy day at the bank, and the city clocks had sounded six before the cashier set the time-locks in the vault and bade good-night to the watchman at the door. But if he was surprised to find an old companion waiting on the steps, his face did not betray the fact.
"I thought I'd walk a little way with you," explained the banker, with an attempt at carelessness that overshot the mark.
"All right," said Mr. Wattles, buttoning up his serviceable coat and bestowing a quick, chipmunk glance upon the weather. "You won't mind if I stop to get my collars?"
A misty rain was falling, and the streets were filled with people hurrying home from work. As the two men fell in with the procession the banker gave an awkward little hop to catch the step.
"I don't suppose you take your laundry to the same place still?" he speculated.
"Oh, yes, the same old place," replied the other. "Mrs. Brennan's dead, of course, but Mary Ann still carries on the business."
"You don't mean little Mary Ann?"
"Yes, she's big Mary Ann now, and has five children of her own. Her husband was a switchman in the yards until he got run over by an engine two years ago."
Connected talk was difficult in the jostling crowd, and often the two men proceeded for half a block in silence. Once Mr. Wattles dived into a little shop to buy tobacco for his pipe. On his return he found the banker occupied with landmarks.