He took up a yellow package of valueless obligations upon the top of which an old-fashioned locomotive from whose bell-shaped funnel the smoke poured in picturesque black clouds, dragging behind it a chain of funny little passenger coaches, drove furiously along beside a rushing river through fields rich with corn and wheat amid a border of dollar signs.

“The Great Lakes and Canadian Southern,” he crooned lovingly.  “The child of my heart!  The district attorney kept all the rest—­as evidence, he claimed, but some day you’ll see he’ll bring an action against the Lake Shore or the New York Central based on these bonds.  Yes, sir!  They’re all right!”

He pawed them over, picking out favorites here and there and excitedly extolling the merits of the imaginary properties they represented.  There were the repudiated bonds of Southern states and municipalities of railroads upon whose tracks no wheel had ever turned; of factories never built except in Doc Barrows’ addled brain; of companies which had defaulted and given stock for their worthless obligations; certificates of oil, mining and land companies; deeds to tracts now covered with sky scrapers in Pittsburgh, St. Louis and New York—­each and every one of them not worth the paper they were printed on except to some crook who dealt in high finance.  But they were exquisitely engraved, quite lovely to look at, and Doc Barrows gloated upon them with scintillating eyes.

“Ain’t they beauties?” he sighed.  “Some day—­yes sir!—­some day they’ll be worth real money.  I paid it for some of ’em.  But they’re yours—­all yours.”

He gathered them up with care and returned them to the suitcase, then fastened the clasps and patted the leather cover with his hand.

“They are yours, sir!” he exclaimed dramatically.

“As you say,” agreed Mr. Tutt, “there’s gold lying round everywhere if we only had sense enough to look for it.  But I think you’re wise to retire.  After all, you have the satisfaction of knowing that your enterprises were sound even if other people disagreed with you.”

“If this was 1819 instead of 1919 I’d own Chicago,” began Doc, a gleam appearing in his eye.  “But they don’t want to upset the status quo—­that’s why I haven’t got a fair chance.  But they needn’t worry!  I’d be generous with ’em—­give ’em easy terms—­long leases and nominal rents.”

“But you’ll like living with your daughter, I’m sure,” said Mr. Tutt.  “It will make a new man of you in no time.”

“Healthiest spot in northern New York,” exclaimed Doc.  “Within two miles of a lake—­fishing, shooting, outdoor recreation of all kinds, an ideal site for a mammoth summer hotel.”

Mr. Tutt rose and laid his arms round old Doc Barrows’ shoulders.

“Thank you a thousand times,” he said gratefully, “for the securities.  I’ll be glad to keep them for you in my vault.”  His lips puckered in a stealthy smile which he tried hard to conceal.