“In your own name?” he asked.

Mr. Bangs reflected.  “Why—­ah—­” he stammered, “I should prefer it in—­ah—­some other name, if possible.  I should prefer that my name was not connected with it, if you don’t mind.”

“In the name of the person you intend paying it to?” inquired the clerk.

Galusha reflected again.  If Martha Phipps’ name were written on that check it would be possible that, some day or other, Cousin Gussie might see it.  And if he saw it, questions would be asked, embarrassing questions.

“No-o,” he said, hesitatingly; “no, I think I should not care to have her—­that is, to have that person’s name appear, either.  Isn’t there some way by which the sum could be paid without any one’s name appearing?  A check to—­to—­oh, dear me! why can’t I think of it?”

“To bearer, you mean?”

“That’s it, that’s it.  A check to bearer would be very satisfactory, very satisfactory, indeed.  Thank you very much.”

The clerk, who was a painstaking young man, destined to rise in his profession, inspected the odd individual outside the railing.

“A check to bearer is almost the same as cash,” he said.  “If you should lose it, it would be negotiable—­practically the money itself, or pretty near it.”

Galusha started.  He looked radiantly happy.

“That’s it!” he exclaimed.  “That’s it, of course.  Thank you for the suggestion.  The money will be the very thing.  It will be such a delightful surprise.  And there will be no one’s name upon it at all.  I will take the money, of course.”

It took some time to convince the astonished clerk that Mr. Bangs actually wished five thousand dollars in currency, but he finally was convinced.

“How will you have it?” he asked.  “Small bills or large?”

Galusha apparently did not care.  Any denominations would be quite satisfactory, he affirmed.  So, when the transaction was finished, and he left the Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot office, it was with a new check for nine thousand, three hundred and ten dollars and thirty-eight cents in his pocketbook and in his trousers’ pocket a roll of bills as thick as his wrist.  By way of modification to this statement, it may be well to explain that Galusha Bangs’ wrists, considered as wrists, were by no means thick.

The clerk stared after him as he departed and a fellow clerk paused to ask questions.

“Who was the old guy?” he inquired.

“Name’s Bangs.”

“What is he?”

“A nut,” was the reply, given with the assurance of absolute conviction.

The “nut” traveled back to East Wellmouth upon the afternoon train and, back once more in the Phipps’ sitting room, “shelled out” upon the center table.  Martha stared at the heap of bills and caught her breath with a gasp.

Galusha deposited the last bank note upon the table.  “There!” he exclaimed, with satisfaction; “that is all, I believe.  And I have actually gotten it here—­all of it.  I am quite sure I haven’t lost a—­a penny.  Dear me, that is a very remarkable thing to do—­for me to do, I mean.”