CHAPTER XIII

PHIL MAKES A DISCOVERY

Eric came to the bank a little late on the morning following the party, but as soon as he had joined Phil at the high desk which they used in common he began to sing the praises of Marion Randolph.

“She isn’t a raving beauty, Phil,” he said, “and until now I’ve always hated the sight of any girl that wears glasses; but Marion’s a crackerjack in some ways. She’s got a wad of money, for one thing--or her old man has, and that’s just the same.”

“I suppose Mr. Randolph is a very wealthy man,” remarked Phil, who disliked to discuss Marion with his friend.

“Wealthy!” cried Eric; “why, Randolph’s the head of the big Boston bond syndicate. He’s one of the slickest financiers in this country. Look here, Phil,” turning to a page in the ledger; “just notice this entry. When Mr. Randolph came here with the family, he deposited in our bank ten thousand in cold cash. He and Mrs. Randolph may both check against the account, but you see she’s only drawn a little over a thousand dollars, so far. That’s the sort of a customer we like, and if Mr. Randolph can let ten thousand lie idle in a country bank he must have scads of money.”

Then Eric discussed the elaborate entertainment of yesterday and dwelt perpetually upon the money the Randolphs must be possessed of, until Phil was thoroughly annoyed.

“What does it matter, Eric?” he said. “Money can’t buy everything, in this world.”

“What can’t it buy?” demanded Eric, astonished.

“It can’t buy happiness, or health, or--”

“That’s rubbish, Phil. Give a fellow plenty of money and he’s bound to be happy; he can’t help it. And as for health, money gets the best and most skillful doctors and surgeons in the land, and they’ll cure a rich man where a poor man will die. There isn’t anything, old man, that money won’t do.”

“Then you ought to be satisfied, Eric. Your father is the richest man in Riverdale, except perhaps Mr. Randolph, and you are his only child.”

“Oh, it’ll come to me in time, I guess,” returned Eric, carelessly; “but just now the gov’nor holds me in pretty tight lines. How in blazes can he expect a young fellow to live on my salary? Why, it’s preposterous!”

Phil did not reply to this. It was none of his business.

In some ways this association with Eric was not of the most pleasant description. The two boys had grown up together in the village and had always been friends in a way; but now that Phil was thrown more closely into Eric’s companionship he discovered many traits in his nature that did not seem wholly admirable.

The older boy was a persistent cigarette smoker, and laughed at Phil for refusing to imitate him.

“I’ve tried it,” said Phil, quietly, “but I don’t like the things. To me there’s no fun in smoking.”

After office hours Eric often pleaded with Phil to go to the hotel and play pool with him. Mr. Daring had always had a pool and billiard table in a large room in the attic of his house, and he had taught all his children to play. None of them, however, cared especially for the amusement, and his father’s wisdom was evident when Phil now revolted from a game at the hotel.

“I’m not a good player, Eric,” he said, “and I can’t imagine anyone loafing in that grimy, smoky room just to play a game of pool. What’s the fun in it?”

Mr. Spaythe strongly objected to billiards and pool. He had even reproved Wallace Daring, at times, for having a table in his house. Eric had been sternly forbidden to play, and for that reason those stealthy games at the hotel possessed for the young man the attraction of forbidden fruit.

“Fun!” he retorted; “why, there’s lots of fun in pool. We play for the drinks, you know, and I can beat nearly every fellow in the village. When the farmers’ sons come in, they’re dead easy; there are always some of them around the hotel, and they’re proud to play with me because I’m the banker’s son.”

“Then play with them,” advised Phil. “I don’t drink, as you know, and I’d be poor company for you.”

Eric shook his head sadly.

“You’ll never amount to much in the world, Phil, with those namby-pamby ideas of yours.”

“I don’t consider them namby-pamby ideas, Eric; I simply don’t care for the things you do.”

“The good die young.”

“Oh, I’m not so good as to be in any danger,” laughed Phil. “I imagine I’m pretty full of faults, Eric, and you mustn’t quarrel with me because my faults are not the same as your own.”

After a time young Spaythe refrained from urging Phil to join in his amusements; but he seemed not to be offended and proved genial enough as they worked together at the bank. The two young men occupied a large room at the rear of the neat, one-story brick building. They worked perched upon high stools at a big double desk, where the books were spread out. Behind them was the grim, austere safe which was the repository of so much specie that Phil’s brain sometimes whirled at sight of the heaps of gold and bank notes. Mr. Spaythe’s private office was in front, and beside it was the brass-railed coop where Mr. Boothe sat all day dispensing or receiving money according to the requirements of the customers.

The cashier could not overhear their conversation, if the boys spoke moderately low, and he paid no attention to them, anyway, and seldom even glanced toward them.

“I’ve invited Marion to the boat race,” said Eric one day, soon after the party. “Are you going to pull stroke for our crew, Phil?”

“I suppose so.”

“Do your best, then, old man. I’m going to bet heavily on our crew.”

“I wouldn’t, Eric.”

“Why not?”

“The least little accident decides a boat race.”

“I’ll risk it. We’ve defeated Bayport two years running, and we’re due for a third victory. As a matter of fact, I’m just forced to tie to this race, Phil, and win some necessary money. I owe about everybody in the town, and some of them are getting impatient to see the color of my money.”

Phil knew this was true, and did not care to reply. After working silently for a time he said:

“Eric, didn’t Samuel P. Martin deposit $380 yesterday?”

“No. It was $280.”

“Where’s the slip?”

“Put away, somewhere.”

“But, I’m sure it was three-eighty. I heard him say he wanted four hundred for his team, and threw off twenty dollars in order to make the deal.”

Eric looked a little annoyed.

“I entered two-eighty on the books, didn’t I?” he asked, scowling.

“Yes; that’s what surprised me.”

“Well, then the entry must be correct.”

“I’ll ask Mr. Boothe.”

“Let him alone. It’s my affair.”

Phil said no more, but was still puzzled. When he came back to the bank after dinner he saw that Eric had laid a deposit slip on his desk. It showed that Samuel P. Martin had deposited $280 in Spaythe’s Bank. Phil thought the ink appeared to be quite fresh.

“You see I was right, after all,” observed Eric, glancing at Phil a little anxiously. “After you left I hunted up the deposit slip. Old Martin may have sold his team for three-eighty, but he only put two-eighty in the bank.”

A few days later Phil had occasion to ask:

“Where is the check for two hundred, drawn by Mrs. Randolph?”

“When did she draw it?” inquired Eric.

“This morning, according to the entry. And just now she has presented another check for fifty. I’ve just taken it from Mr. Boothe’s spindle.”

“Probably she didn’t get enough the first time,” remarked Eric, lazily puffing his cigarette, for his father was away from the office just then and he could stealthily indulge in his pet vice.

“I must have that check to file--the one for two hundred--and it isn’t here,” persisted Phil, who had no intention of neglecting any part of his duty.

Eric stared at him, a moment.

“Hand me that bunch of canceled checks,” he said; “I’ll find it.”

Phil passed the bundle across the desk, and while Eric slowly turned over the paid checks and seemed to examine them carefully the other bent his eyes upon the books and continued his work. After a time, the banker’s son handed back the checks.

“There it is, Phil. I’ve placed it on top.”

Yes, there it was, sure enough, although Phil was positive it had not been in the lot before. He did not refer to the subject again, but went on with his task, feeling miserable and dispirited at the thoughts that intruded themselves upon his mind.

Eric left early that afternoon, when Phil took occasion to carefully compare the two checks issued by Mrs. Randolph. That for two hundred was not numbered and seemed to have been very hastily written.

There was a dull ache in young Daring’s heart as he put away the books and papers and prepared to go home. An odd suspicion had forced itself upon him--a suspicion so cruel and deplorable that the boy reproached himself for harboring it for even a moment.

That evening he had a long talk with Phœbe, his only confidant. After relating to his twin the circumstances of Martin’s deposit and Mrs. Randolph’s curious check he said:

“I know I am wrong to be mistrustful, for Eric is Mr. Spaythe’s only son, and would not, of course, attempt to rob his father. But when Martin pushed his money over the counter to Mr. Boothe he said in a loud voice: ‘There’s three hundred and eighty dollars more toward my savings’; so, in spite of that deposit slip, I am almost sure he banked the entire amount.”

“Can Eric get into the safe, where the money is kept?” asked Phœbe, after some thought.

“Of course. He has to put away the books, and often we are not through with our work upon them until after Mr. Boothe has gone. They both have the combination of the safe and the keys to the bank. Naturally, I have not been entrusted with either, as yet.”

Phœbe took time to consider this.

“I suppose,” she finally said, “it would be quite possible for Eric to take a hundred dollars from the safe and then make the entry of Mr. Martin’s deposit a hundred dollars less than it actually was.”

“Yes.”

“Then no one would suspect what Eric had done.”

“Why, the books would not show the theft, of course; but in time Mr. Martin will be sure to discover that he has not been credited with that hundred dollars, and that will lead to an investigation. It’s the same way with Mrs. Randolph’s check,” added Phil, regretfully. “She has a large amount on deposit, and may not discover for a long time that her account is two hundred dollars short.”

“Are you sure she did not sign that check?” asked Phœbe.

“No; I cannot be positive. Mrs. Randolph is in the habit of drawing money from the bank but once a week. She writes neatly and numbers all her checks. To-day I found an entry that Eric had made in the book showing she had drawn two hundred, and the check itself, which should have been among those Mr. Boothe had cashed and turned over to me, was missing. Almost immediately came in the usual check for fifty, made out in Mrs. Randolph’s neat and careful way. Naturally, I was puzzled. When Eric finally found the two hundred dollar check, it was not like Mrs. Randolph’s checks at all, although the handwriting was similar.”

“Have you noticed any other suspicions things?” the girl inquired.

“Several,” replied Phil, after a brief hesitation. “But, I’ve never even dared to suspect Eric before. I hope I’m wrong; indeed, I _must_ be wrong!”

They were walking along a country lane in the twilight. Phil’s arm was around his twin’s waist; the scent of new mown hay came to them from the neighboring fields.

“I do not think you are justified in accusing Eric to his father,” said Phœbe, musingly. “It will be better to keep your suspicions to yourself.”

“That is my idea. I’m not hired as a detective; I’m merely a bookkeeper.”

“Still,” she said, “you owe a certain loyalty to Mr. Spaythe. If an employee discovers the bank being robbed it is his duty to speak; unless--”

“Unless the robber is the banker’s own son,” added Phil; “in which case it would be a kindness to keep the knowledge from him.”

Phœbe sighed.

“Eric has a good heart,” she observed, “and I’m sure he’d never think of taking money from anyone but his father. He isn’t robbing the customers of the bank by these acts, you know.”

“That is true, for the false entries are certain to be discovered, when the bank will be obliged to make good the deficiencies. Eric realizes this, I suppose. He has been very extravagant lately, and his father keeps him on a very small salary. So, it seems to me, he has been tempted to take what doesn’t belong to him.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” said the girl. “It’s a dreadful thing, Phil, any way you look at it. But I do not think it is your place to interfere. Fate will take care of the problem, and Eric’s final downfall is certain.”

“Would you advise me to have a private talk with him, and tell him what I know?” asked Phil.

“What’s the use? He cannot put back the money he has taken. Better let the thing run its course, Phil, and keep out of it yourself in every way.”

“I will,” said Phil, with decision.

But Eric was not long in discovering a change in Phil’s attitude toward him. The young man did not mean to alter his manner toward his old friend, but their former congenial relations were rather abruptly broken off, much to Eric’s surprise. Then the latter became suspicious, and while he spoke to his colleague as cheerfully as of old, Phil frequently caught Eric watching him with a sly, searching glance that had a trace of fear in it. This mistrust gradually wore away when the banker’s son found he had not been betrayed, or even questioned. If Phil found any entries in the books that did not look exactly right to him, he passed them over and said nothing. This served to restore Eric’s confidence in him, and the two boys continued to work together in perfect harmony.

Phœbe was very miserable over Phil’s discovery of Eric’s irregularities. It was the first time any disgraceful or criminal act had been brought close to her knowledge, and she became nervous for fear her twin might, in some way, become implicated in the terrible affair. The girl was sorry for Eric, and grieved over him with all her kindly heart. It seemed so sad that a bright young fellow with such splendid prospects should go wrong and foolishly ruin all his future life. She knew Mr. Spaythe well enough to believe he would cast off Eric without mercy when he learned the fact that his son was a thief. For this reason she sincerely hoped the banker would never make the discovery.