“Well, Mr. Ricks,” the cashier greeted him, “if you can't talk make signs.”
Cappy flapped his hands and made three rapid strokes with his index finger, like a motion-picture actor writing a twelve-line letter; then the words came in a veritable cascade.
“Letters of credit,” he croaked-“two.” The cashier picked up a pencil and a scratch pad. “One, twenty-five thousand, favor Michael J. Murphy; one, favor--oh, what in blue blazes is that girl's first name? Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I never heard her first name--she's just Miss Keenan. Oh, the devil! Call her Matilda--that's it--Matilda Keenan--fifty thousand dollars for her; and--”
“You appear to be in a terrific hurry for them, Mr. Ricks, so I'll get them started immediately,” the cashier interrupted, and turned his memorandum over to an underling, with instructions to give Mr. Ricks' letters of credit precedence over all other business.
“Now write--check--your favor--seventy thousand. I'll sign it--hope Skinner has enough cash on deposit; if he hasn't--my personal note, you know.”
“A mere trifle, Mr. Ricks. We will not worry over that.” The cashier filled in the check and Cappy signed it with a trembling hand. “And now,” the cashier continued, “we will have to have Miss Keenan and Mr. Murphy come to the bank to register their respective signatures--”
“Nothing doing!” Cappy piped. “Give me the cards and I'll have 'em write their signatures on them aboard the steamer and send them ashore by the pilot. None o' your efficiency monkey business, my son! I guarantee everything.”
He dashed to the telephone and yelled into the receiver: “Taxicab! Taxicab!”
“One of the cars belonging to the bank is at the curb, Mr. Ricks. The chauffeur will take you wherever you desire to go,” the cashier suggested.
“Bully for you!” Again Cappy commenced to flap his hands. “Stenographer--where's the stenographer? Oh, Judas Priest, nobody helps me! Bless your sweet heart, my dear, here you are, aren't you? Yes, and I'll not forget you for it either. No, no, no! No notes. Just stick piece of paper in the typewriter--now then! Ready! Dictation direct to machine. Er--ah! Harumph-h-h! Oh, suffering sailor! What's the name of the French bank in Papeete? I don't know. I'm a director and vice president of this infernal bank--and I don't know I'm alive! Man, man, I want it--a thing--a what-you-may-call-'em--a--Oh, the devil! Why do I deposit in this dratted bank? Eureka! I have it! I want a notice.”