"To open a small account--two of 'em.
Checks for collection," he announced. Tone and manner were breezily
self-assertive; the president, from his desk, turned and looked. He
indorsed, blotting with a swift dab, and a final fillip through the
window. "Chicago, thirty-three hundred--credit to Britt & Stratton.
Here's our signature. Denver, eight hundred, to private account H.E.
Stratton. He'll be here next week. I'll bring him around and identify.
Draw on this by Wednesday? Good! Gimme checkbook. Excuse haste; yours
truly!" He popped out.
The president smiled. "An original character, apparently," he said.
"He doesn't aim to let grass grow under _his_ feet."
Between two and three Britt bustled into Mendenhall's, making for the
office.
"Oh, I say!" he puffed, as Mendenhall rose. "Banked that check yet?"
"Not yet," replied the other sedately. "It is our custom to send the
day's checks for deposit just before three. Nothing wrong, I trust?"
Britt dropped into a chair, mopping his face. "Oh, no, nothing
_wrong_; but I'm afraid I've made a little mistake. I'm not a good
business man--not systematic--though I worry along. Like the young
wife's bookkeeping--'Received fifty dollars from John--spent it all.'
Fact is, I never entirely got over the days when a very short memory
was enough to keep track of all my transactions.
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