“What do you think?” asked Richards.
“You really mean do I advise you to open it, don't you?” asked Kidder..
“Not exactly; but--”
“Of course,” said the newspaper man, “it does not say it is _not_ to
be opened in case of _living_. That is sufficient excuse--that and your
curiosity.”
“I don't like to open it,” said Richards, doubtfully.
“Don't!”
“Still, I'd like to know what's inside.”
“Then open it.”
“I don't think I have a right to.”
“Don't, then!”
“Oh, shut up! I won't open it! I don't know whether to take the account.
You don't know anything about this man--”
“You broker fellows make me tired--posing as careful business men. All
Robison has to do is to go to any of your branch offices or anybody's
branch office, say his name is W. Jones and that he keeps a cigar-store
in Hackensack or Flatbush, and your branch manager will never let him
get away. And afore-mentioned manager will swear, if you should be
so mean as to ask who W. Jones is, that he and W. J. went to school
together--known him for years!”
“After all,” said Richards, a trifle defiantly, “there is no reason why
I shouldn't do business for Robison that you know of?”
“Not that I know of--but if he buncoes you out of a big wad don't blame
me.”
“He is welcome to anything he can make out of us,” smiled Richards,
grimly, and Kidder laughed so heartily that the broker looked pleased
with himself and his witticism. He rang for the cashier, gave him the
one hundred thousand dollars, and had the amount credited to James B.
Robison, address unknown.