bank? Want to send in checks for collection."

"At the Farmers' and Citizens', mostly. The First National is right
around the corner, first turn to your left. Thank you very much,
Mr."--he glanced at the check--Britt--Mr. N.C. Britt. I hope for the
pleasure of your better acquaintance, Mr. Britt."

"Oh, you will!" laughed Britt. "Nice little town, here. If I like it
as well a year from now as I do to-day I'll stick. Time for an old
fellow like me to settle down. I've worked hard all my life. But I've
got enough. What's the good of more? No dying in the harness for mine.
I want to retire, as they call it, and let the young bucks do the
work."

"Oh, you're not an old man," protested Mendenhall with reason. "Your
amazing vitality--your energetic----" Britt pulled at his luxuriant
white hair.

"Oh, good enough for an old has-been!" He laughed with pardonable
vanity. "Pretty hearty yet, owing to having lived a clean and
wholesome life, thank God; but aging, sir--aging. 'The evil days draw
nigh!'" He shook his head with a sober air, which at once gave way to
the satisfied smile habitual on his round, contented face. Briskly, he
consulted a heavy gold repeater, replacing it with the quick movement
of one to whom seconds are valuable. "Well, well! Twelve-thirty! Been
here all morning, picking and choosing! Take luncheon with me? No? All
right--see you later!" He swung out through the door.

Turning the corner, he crossed the street to the First National,
bounced in and presented himself at the teller's window, lighting a
cigar, puffing like a tugboat. "To open a small account--two of 'em.
Checks for collection," he announced. Tone and manner were breezily
self-assertive; the president, from his desk, turned and looked. He
indorsed, blotting with a swift dab, and a final fillip through the
window. "Chicago, thirty-three hundred--credit to Britt & Stratton.
Here's our signature. Denver, eight hundred, to private account H.E.
Stratton. He'll be here next week. I'll bring him around and identify.
Draw on this by Wednesday? Good! Gimme checkbook. Excuse haste; yours
truly!" He popped out.

The president smiled. "An original character, apparently," he said.
"He doesn't aim to let grass grow under _his_ feet."

Between two and three Britt bustled into Mendenhall's, making for the
office.

"Oh, I say!" he puffed, as Mendenhall rose. "Banked that check yet?"

"Not yet," replied the other sedately. "It is our custom to send th