FIFTEENHE WAS a perfectly small d democratic millionaire, willing to ride down to the village in a second-hand station wagon and be seen on the streets in his gardening garb.
The branch Bank of America cheerfully accepted the H. H. Crossway countercheck and handed him a thousand dollars. Ten C-notes really made no more of a wad than so many singles, but still they gave the concept of how ten grand would have bulged Dottie’s stocking. If she had banked it, there must have been microfilm records of the transaction. Five hundred miles and a couple of days just to find out?
“Shouldn’t we mark this money?” the old man said.
“You better keep your money here in the bank, if it’s the money you care about.”
“As a sensible business precaution, at least copy the serial numbers.”
“Suppose he look
