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 the day’s checks for deposit just before three.  Nothing wrong, I trust?”

Britt dropped into a chair, mopping his face.  “Oh, no, nothing wrong; but I’m afraid I’ve made a little mistake.  I’m not a good business man—­not systematic—­though I worry along.  Like the young wife’s bookkeeping—­’Received fifty dollars from John—­spent it all.’  Fact is, I never entirely got over the days when a very short memory was enough to keep track of all my transactions.  Always forgetting to fill out my stubs,” he explained.  “So I don’t remember what bank I checked on.  But I’m pretty sure ’twas the Commercial, and my balance there is low—­not enough to cover your bill, I’m thinking.”  He leaned back, his portly sides shaking with merriment.  “By Jove!” he roared.  “It would have been a good joke on me if I hadn’t remembered.  Nice introduction to a town where I expect to make my home.  Oh, well, even so, you had the furniture safe in your warehouse.  Guess you wouldn’t have been much scared, eh?” He poked Mendenhall playfully with a stubby finger.  “Well, let’s see about it.”

Secretly, the other resented the familiarity, deprecated the boisterous publicity with which the stranger saw fit to do business.  Business, with Mendenhall, was a matter for dignified and strictly private conference.  With stately precision he took up the neat bundle of checks which he had just indorsed, ran them over, slipped one from under the rubber band, and scanned it with great deliberation.  He could not afford to offend a good customer, but he could thus subtly rebuke such hasty and slipshod methods.

“Yes, it is on the Commercial.”  He held it out inquiringly.

“Thought so!” snorted the other.  “Dolt!  Imbecile!  Ass!  I’ll apply for a guardian.  Fix you out this time!” He whipped out fountain pen and checkbook.  “National Trust Company (guess I’ve got enough there).  Pay to J.C.  Mendenhall & Co.—­how much was that?”