money. If the venerable old party I
address holds a job inside we might withdraw from the public gaze and
commune within the portals. The day is raw and that ice-cream suit
invites pneumonia."

Passers-by viewed the pair with an amused smile. Captain Wilson,
stumping along at the moment, asked without pausing:--

"Stranger in town, Amzi?"

"Yes, Cap; she's just bought the town and wants the key to the bank
vault."

Phil followed her uncle into the bank and waited for him to walk round
behind the cages. The dingy old room with its walnut counter and desks
seemed at once a brighter place. The four clerks made it convenient to
expose themselves to Phil's smile. She planted herself at the paying
teller's cage and waited for Amzi's benevolent countenance to appear at
the wicket. She held up her cardcase that he might have the full benefit
of her splendor, extracted a small bit of paper, and passed it in to
him. Seeing that it was not one of the familiar checks of the Montgomery
Bank, he scrutinized it closely. It was a check of the "Journey's End"
Magazine Company for fifty dollars, drawn upon a New York bank and
payable to Phyllis Kirkwood.

Amzi's face expressed no surprise. He threw it back and waved her away.

"It's no good. Worthless!"

"No good? You don't mean--"

"No good, Miss Kirkwood--without your indorsement."

"Why didn't you say so! I don't want to come as near sudden death as
that again."

He thrust out a pen so that she need not turn to the tall desk behind
her to make the indorsement. He examined the signature carefully and
blotted it.

"One of your own efforts, Phil?" he asked carelessly.

"Well, yes, you might say so. I suppose you'd call it that."

"Poetry?"

"A poor guess, Amy, and marks you as an ignorant person. Fifty dollars
for a poem out of my green little cantaloupe? That's half what Milton
got for 'Paradise Lost.' And the prices haven't gone up much since John
died."

She knew that his curiosity was aroused. This play of indifference was
an old game of theirs, a part of the teasing to which she subjected him
and which he encouraged.

"Story?"

"Absurd! Everybody in this town is writing a novel. Every time I go into
the post-office I see scared-looking people getting their manuscripts
weighed, and nervously looking round for fear of being caught. Nan says
it's a kind of literary measles people have in Indiana. Aunt Josephine's
cook writes poetry--burnt up a pan of biscuits th