Old Jerry laid down Paul’s coat, and opened the bank book, of which he
had just obtained possession. He was eager to ascertain how much Paul
had saved up.
“Forty dollars!”
He could hardly believe his eyes.
How in the world could Paul have managed to save up forty dollars?
“Forty dollars!” exclaimed old Jerry, gleefully. “I’m in luck for once.
Of course it belongs to me. I am Paul’s guardian, and have a right to
his earnings. He shouldn’t have kept it from me. I--I will go to the
bank and draw it all tomorrow. Then I will put it in in my own name.
That will make it all right.” And old Jerry rubbed his hands joyfully.
After this theft, for it can be called by no other name, Jerry did not
sleep much. He was too much excited by the unexpected magnitude of his
discovery, and by his delight at adding so much to his own hoards.
Then, again, he was afraid Paul might wake up, and, discovering his
loss, demand from him the restitution of the book.
Generally Paul rose at six o’clock, as this enabled him to get his
breakfast and get round to the telegraph company at seven. He generally
waked about fifteen minutes before the hour, such was the force of
habit.
This morning he woke at the usual time, but old Jerry had got up
softly and left the room twenty minutes before.
Turning over, Paul glanced toward the bed in the corner, and was
surprised to see no signs of the old man.
“Jerry gone out already!” he said to himself, in amazement “I wonder
what’s come over him. I hope he isn’t sick.”
Paul didn’t however borrow any trouble, for he concluded that Jerry had
got tired of his bed, and gone out for a morning walk.
He lay till seven, and then, throwing off the quilt, rose from the
lounge. He was already partly dressed, and only needed to put on his
coat. Then, with a cheerful smile, he felt for his bank book, which he
had placed in the inside pocket of his coat.
_It was not there!_
He started, and turned pale.
“Where is my bank book?” he asked himself in alarm.
Then it flashed upon him.
“Old Jerry has taken it!” he said, sternly, “and has slunk off with it
before I am up. That’s why he got up so early. But I’ll put a spoke in
his wheel. I’ll go to the bank and give notice that my book has been
stolen. He shan’t draw the money on it, if I can prevent it.”
But Paul was unable to carry out his intention of calling at the
bank at the hour of opening, in order to give notice of his loss. On
reporting for duty at the telegraph office, he was sent over to Jersey
City, where he was detained until eleven o’clock. He felt uneasy, and
thought of asking to have some other boy assigned to the duty, but it
so happened that the superintendent was not in an amiable frame of
mind, and he knew that his request would not be granted.
Meanwhile, about five minutes after the bank was opened, old Jerry
shambled in, and, sitting down at a table, wrote out an order for forty
dollars in favor of Book No. 251,610 signing it “Paul Parton.”
This he took to the desk of the cashier.
“Please give me the money on this,” he said.
The cashier eyed him sharply.
“Are you Paul Parton?” he demanded.
“N-no,” faltered the old man; “I am Paul’s guardian.”
“Did you put in this money for him?”
“N-no.”
“Did he write this order?”
Old Jerry would have had no scruples about asserting that it was
written by Paul, but he knew that the statement would at once be
recognized as false, as he had himself written it in the presence of
the cashier.
“N-no,” he admitted, reluctantly; “but it makes no difference; Paul is
busy, and can’t come. He’s a telegraph boy. H-he wanted me to draw it
for him.”
It will be seen that old Jerry’s conscience was elastic, and that he
had no scruple about lying.
“That won’t answer,” replied the cashier, eying the old man
suspiciously. “It is not according to our rules.”
“I--I want to use the money--that is, Paul does,” remonstrated old
Jerry, disappointed.
“That makes no difference.”
“I--I’ll get Paul to write an order,” said Jerry, as he left the bank.
“That old man stole the boy’s book,” thought the cashier. “Now he is
going home to forge an order in the boy’s name.”
That is exactly what old Jerry meant to do. He thought it best however,
to wait till afternoon.
Meanwhile, at twelve o’clock, Paul, then for the first time able to get
away, hurried into the bank, breathless.
“I want to give notice that my bank book has been taken,” he said,
panting.
“Your name, please?”
“Paul Parton.”
“Number of book?”
“No. 251,610.”
“Your book was presented two hours since by an old man, who handed in
an order for all the money.”
The perspiration gathered on Paul’s brow.
“Did you give it to him?”
“No; it is not according to our rules to pay, except to the written
order of the depositor.”
“I am glad of that,” said Paul. “Don’t pay it if he comes again.”
“We will not,” replied the cashier; and Paul left the building feeling
greatly relieved.
Old Jerry ought to have known that there was very little chance of a
forged order being honored, for the bank possessed Paul’s autograph
signature on its books, making the fact of the forgery evident at once,
but it sometimes happens that men sharp in some matters are very obtuse
in others. This was the case with old Jerry in the present instance.
About two o’clock he entered the bank once more. Paul had not come home
at the noon hour--he seldom did, being in the habit of dining at a
restaurant, and the old man thought him still ignorant of the theft. He
was anxious to draw the money before the telegraph boy learned that his
book had been appropriated.
He had prepared an order, having taken one with him in blank, and made
it out for forty dollars, signing it “Paul Parton.”
Armed with this, he walked up to the cashier’s window, and without a
word presented it in the book.
The cashier recognized him instantly.
“Well,” he said, “what do you want?”
“The money,” answered the old man, his features working with cupidity.
“You were here this morning?”
“Y--yes.”
“I told you you could not draw out the money on your own order.”
“This is Paul’s order,” returned Jerry, with unblushing falsehood.
“Did he write it?”
“Y--yes.”
“I thought you said he was occupied by business.”
“He--he came home at noon, and wrote the order.”
“That is false!” said the cashier, sternly. “The boy has been here to
report that his book has been stolen, and forbade us to pay out any
money on it.”
The old man’s face was the picture of dismay.
“The--there’s some mistake,” he managed to mutter. “It must be some
other boy. Paul asked me to draw the money. Besides, it isn’t his money
at all. It--it rightfully belongs to me.”
“You can draw no money on the order which you have forged,” said the
cashier, sternly.
“Then give me back the book,” said Jerry, beginning to get frightened.
“I shall retain the book for the rightful owner,” said the official.
“And now let me advise you never to come here again on any such errand,
or I shall feel it my duty to hand you over to the police.”
Without another word old Jerry shambled out of the bank, with a scared
look on his face. This reference to the police startled him. It had not
occurred to him that he was doing anything of which the law could take
cognizance. His exultation of the morning had quite passed away. He had
flattered himself that his hoard would increase by forty dollars. Now
he had found himself foiled in the attempt to convert Paul’s savings to
his own use.
About six o’clock Paul returned to the humble home. Old Jerry was
resting on the bed in the corner. He looked up nervously as the
telegraph boy entered, and saw at once by the expression on Paul’s face
that he knew all.
“Jerry,” said Paul, “why did you take my bank book?”
“I--I’m so poor, Paul,” whined Jerry, “I--I needed the money.”
“So you turned thief,” returned the boy, indignantly.
“The money was mine by right--you shouldn’t have kept it from me.”
“I deny it!” said Paul, with emphasis. “Have you got the book with you?”
“N--no; they wouldn’t give it back to me,” complained Jerry.
“And they did right. If you ever play such a trick on me again, robbing
me in my sleep, I’ll leave you. Suppose I should get hold of your bank
book--”
“I--I haven’t any money in the bank. I’m so poor!” ejaculated the
miser, panic stricken.
“I have reason to believe you have the bank book in your pocket at this
moment.”
“You--you wouldn’t rob me, Paul?” implored Jerry.
“How can I if you have no bank book? But you can rest easy. I am not in
the habit of stealing.”
He went out to supper, leaving Jerry utterly discomposed. Not only had
his plan failed, but his secret had been discovered.