“Stolen!” echoed the cashier. “That’s unfortunate. Not so bad as it might be, though. The thief can’t collect the money.”
“That’s what I came to see about,” said Dick. “I was afraid he might have got it already.”
“He hasn’t been here yet. Even if he had, I remember you, and should have detected him. When was it taken?”
“Yesterday,” said Dick. “I missed it in the evenin’ when I got home.”
“Have you any suspicion as to the person who took it?” asked the cashier.
Dick thereupon told all he knew as to the general character and suspicious conduct of Jim Travis, and the cashier agreed with him that he was probably the thief. Dick also gave his reason for thinking that he would visit the bank that morning, to withdraw the funds.
“Very good,” said the cashier. “We’ll be ready for him. What is the number of your book?”
“No. 5,678,” said Dick.
“Now give me a little description of this Travis whom you suspect.”
Dick accordingly furnished a brief outline sketch of Travis, not particularly complimentary to the latter.
“That will answer. I think I shall know him,” said the cashier. “You may depend upon it that he shall receive no money on your account.”
“Thank you,” said Dick.
Considerably relieved in mind, our hero turned towards the door, thinking that there would be nothing gained by his remaining longer, while he would of course lose time.
He had just reached the doors, which were of glass, when through them he perceived James Travis himself just crossing the street, and apparently coming towards the bank. It would not do, of course, for him to be seen.
“Here he is,” he exclaimed, hurrying back. “Can’t you hide me somewhere? I don’t want to be seen.”
The cashier understood at once how the land lay. He quickly opened a little door, and admitted Dick behind the counter.
“Stoop down,” he said, “so as not to be seen.”
Dick had hardly done so when Jim Travis opened the outer door, and, looking about him in a little uncertainty, walked up to the cashier’s desk.
XXIII
Travis Is Arrested
Jim Travis advanced into the bank with a doubtful step, knowing well that he was on a dishonest errand, and heartily wishing that he were well out of it. After a little hesitation, he approached the paying-teller, and, exhibiting the bankbook, said, “I want to get my money out.”
The bank-officer took the book, and, after looking at it a moment, said, “How much do you want?”
“The whole of it,” said Travis.
“You can draw out any part of it, but to draw out the whole requires a week’s notice.”
“Then I’ll take a hundred dollars.”
“Are you the person to whom the book belongs?”
“Yes, sir,” said Travis, without hesitation.
“Your name is—”
“Hunter.”
The bank-clerk went to a large folio volume, containing the names of depositors, and began to turn over the leaves. While he was doing this, he managed to send out a young man connected with the bank for a policeman. Travis did not perceive this, or did not suspect that it had anything to do with himself. Not being used to savings banks, he supposed the delay only what was usual. After a search, which was only intended to gain time that a policeman might be summoned, the cashier came back, and, sliding out a piece of paper to Travis, said, “It will be necessary for you to write an order for the money.”
Travis took a pen, which he found on the ledge outside, and wrote the order, signing his name “Dick Hunter,” having observed that name on the outside of the book.
“Your name is Dick Hunter, then?” said the cashier, taking the paper, and looking at the thief over his spectacles.
“Yes,” said Travis, promptly.
“But,” continued the cashier, “I find Hunter’s age is put down on the bankbook as fourteen. Surely you must be more than that.”
Travis would gladly have declared that he was only fourteen; but, being in reality twenty-three, and possessing a luxuriant pair of whiskers, this was not to be thought of. He began to feel uneasy.
“Dick Hunter’s my younger brother,” he said. “I’m getting out the money for him.”
“I thought you said your own name was Dick Hunter,” said the cashier.
“I said my name was Hunter,” said Travis, ingeniously. “I didn’t understand you.”
“But you’ve signed the name of Dick Hunter to this order. How is that?” questioned the troublesome cashier.
Travis saw that he was getting himself into a tight place; but his self-possession did not desert him.
“I thought I must give my brother’s name,” he answered.
“What is your own name?”
“Henry Hunter.”
“Can you bring anyone to testify that the statement you are making is correct?”
“Yes, a dozen if you like,” said Travis, boldly. “Give me the book, and I’ll come back this afternoon. I didn’t think there’d be such a fuss about getting out a little money.”
“Wait a moment. Why don’t your brother come himself?”
“Because he’s sick. He’s down with the measles,” said Travis.
Here the cashier signed to Dick to rise and show himself. Our hero accordingly did so.
“You will be glad to find that he has recovered,” said the cashier, pointing to Dick.
With an exclamation of anger and dismay, Travis, who saw the game was up, started for the door, feeling that safety made such a course prudent. But he was too late. He found himself confronted by a burly policeman, who seized him by the arm, saying, “Not so fast, my man. I want you.”
“Let me go,” exclaimed Travis, struggling to free himself.
“I’m sorry I can’t oblige you,” said the officer. “You’d better not make a fuss, or I may have to hurt you a little.”
Travis sullenly resigned himself to his fate, darting a look of rage at Dick, whom he considered the author of his present misfortune.
“This is your book,” said the cashier, handing back his rightful property to our hero. “Do you wish to draw out any money?”
“Two dollars,” said Dick.
“Very well. Write an order for the amount.”
Before doing so, Dick, who now that he
