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|A Waif of the Plains||Bret Harte|
|Page 7 of 8||
"If you'll let me pay you back again," said Clarence, a little ashamed, and considerably frightened at his implied accusation of the man before him.
"You can," said the man, bending over his desk again.
Clarence took up the money and awkwardly drew out his purse. But it was the first time he had touched it since it was returned to him in the bar-room, and it struck him that it was heavy and full-- indeed, so full that on opening it a few coins rolled out on to the floor. The man looked up abruptly.
"I thought you said you had only twenty dollars?" he remarked grimly.
"Mr. Peyton gave me forty," returned Clarence, stupefied and blushing. "I spent twenty dollars for drinks at the bar--and," he stammered, "I--I--I don't know how the rest came here."
"You spent twenty dollars for DRINKS?" said the man, laying down his pen, and leaning back in his chair to gaze at the boy.
"Yes--that is--I treated some gentlemen of the stage, sir, at Davidson's Crossing."
"Did you treat the whole stage company?"
"No, sir, only about four or five--and the bar-keeper. But everything's so dear in California. I know that."
"Evidently. But it don't seem to make much difference with YOU," said the man, glancing at the purse.
"They wanted my purse to look at," said Clarence hurriedly, "and that's how the thing happened. Somebody put HIS OWN MONEY back into MY purse by accident."
"Of course," said the man grimly.
"Yes, that's the reason," said Clarence, a little relieved, but somewhat embarrassed by the man's persistent eyes.
"Then, of course," said the other quietly, "you don't require my twenty dollars now."
"But," returned Clarence hesitatingly, "this isn't MY money. I must find out who it belongs to, and give it back again. Perhaps," he added timidly, "I might leave it here with you, and call for it when I find the man, or send him here."
With the greatest gravity he here separated the surplus from what was left of Peyton's gift and the twenty dollars he had just received. The balance unaccounted for was forty dollars. He laid it on the desk before the man, who, still looking at him, rose and opened the door.
The clerk who had shown Clarence in appeared.
"Open an account with--" He stopped and turned interrogatively to Clarence.
"Clarence Brant," said Clarence, coloring with excitement.
"With Clarence Brant. Take that deposit"--pointing to the money-- "and give him a receipt." He paused as the clerk retired with a wondering gaze at the money, looked again at Clarence, said, "I think YOU'LL do," and reentered the private office, closing the door behind him.
I hope it will not be deemed inconceivable that Clarence, only a few moments before crushed with bitter disappointment and the hopeless revelation of his abandonment by his relatives, now felt himself lifted up suddenly into an imaginary height of independence and manhood. He was leaving the bank, in which he stood a minute before a friendless boy, not as a successful beggar, for this important man had disclaimed the idea, but absolutely as a customer! a depositor! a business man like the grown-up clients who were thronging the outer office, and before the eyes of the clerk who had pitied him! And he, Clarence, had been spoken to by this man, whose name he now recognized as the one that was on the door of the building--a man of whom his fellow-passengers had spoken with admiring envy--a banker famous in all California! Will it be deemed incredible that this imaginative and hopeful boy, forgetting all else, the object of his visit, and even the fact that he considered this money was not his own, actually put his hat a little on one side as he strolled out on his way to the streets and prospective fortune?
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