"I can't reach the desk to sign it," complained Jimmy.
"Have you an account here?" asked the teller politely.
"Well, no sir."
"Any identification?"
"No--no sir," said Jimmy thoughtfully. Not a shred of anything did he
have to show who he was under either name.
"Who is this Jimmy James?" asked the teller.
"Me. I am."
The teller smiled. "And you wrote a short story that sold to _Boy's
Magazine_?" he asked with a lifted eyebrow. "That's pretty good for a
little guy like you."
"Yes sir."
The teller looked over Jimmy's head; Jimmy turned to look up at one of
the bank's policemen. "Tom, what do you make of this?"
The policeman shrugged. He stooped down to Jimmy's level. "Where did you
get this check, young fellow?" he asked gently.
"It came in the mail this morning."
"You're Jimmy James?"
"Yes sir." Jimmy Holden had been called that for more than half a year;
his assent was automatic.
"How old are you, young man?" asked the policeman kindly.
"Five and a half."
"Isn't that a bit young to be writing stories?"