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.