The Daring Twins

“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.