Anderson’s expression changed subtly.  He nodded.

“Well, what I want to know is—­what do you think of him?”

“I don’t quite understand what you mean,” Anderson replied, stiffly.

“Well, I mean—­ Well, what I mean is just this”—­the druggist made a nervous, imperative gesture with a long forefinger—­“this, if you want to know—­is he good?”

“You mean?”

“Yes, is he good?”

“He has paid his bills here,” Anderson said.  He offered the other man a chair, which was declined with a shake of the head.

“No, thank you, can’t stop.  I’ve left my little boy in the store all alone.  So he has paid you?”

“Yes, he has paid his bills here,” Anderson replied, with a guilty sense of evasion, remembering the check.

“Well, maybe he is all right.  I’ll tell you, if you won’t speak of it.  Of course he may be all right; and I don’t want to quarrel with a good customer.  All there is—­he came rushing in three weeks ago to-day and said he was late for the train, and he had used up his commutation and had come off without his pocket-book, and of course could not get credit at the station office, and if I had a book he would take it and write me a check.  While he was talking he was scratching a check on a New York bank like lightning.  He made a mistake and drew it for ten dollars too much; and I hadn’t a full book anyway, only one with thirty-five tickets in it, and I let him have that and gave him the difference in cash—­fifteen dollars and forty-two cents.  And—­well—­the long and short of it is, the check came back from the bank, no good.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Haven’t seen him since.  I went to his house twice, but he wasn’t home.  I tried to catch him at the station, but he has been going on different trains lately; and once when I got a glimpse of him the train was in and he had just time to swing on and I couldn’t stop him then, of course.  Then I dropped him a line, and got a mighty smooth note back.  He said there was a mistake; he was very sorry; he would explain at once and settle; and that’s over a week ago, and—­”

“Probably he will settle it, if he said so,” said Anderson, with the memory of the little boy who had been sent to return the stolen candy in his mind.

“Well, I hope he will, but—­” The druggist hesitated.  Then he went on:  “There is something else, to tell the truth.  One of his girls came in just now and asked me to cash a check for twenty-five dollars—­her father’s check, but on another bank—­and—­I refused.”

Anderson flushed.  A great gust of wind made the window rattle, and he pulled it down with an irritated jerk.

“Do you think I did right?” asked the druggist, who had a nervous appeal of manner.  “Maybe the check was good.  I hated to refuse, of course.  I said I was short of ready money.  I don’t think she suspected anything.  She is a nice-spoken girl.  I don’t suppose she knew if the check wasn’t good.”