want to draw out a little—or anything like that—just how one did such things.
Mr. Perkins gave a loud laugh and slapped one of his well-stuffed pepper-and-salt trouser-legs, just above the knee, then stood up. "Come with me, come with me," he said in a deep voice, his eyes twinkling mysteriously. "Come with me."
Reba rose, and followed Mr. Perkins across the hall, then down a winding iron staircase, through some grilled gates, into a tiny, crypt-like space, electric-lighted, underground somewhere. Its walls appeared to be made of steel—metal of some kind, anyhow—and were peppered with numbers and key-holes. Mr. Perkins stood up on tiptoe and tapped two of the numbers with his keyring.
"Bulging, bulging, bulging," he announced. "And your father says you'll need another box pretty soon, he's afraid. All yours, all yours, all yours, Miss Jerome. First mortgage bonds, every one of 'em, so I understand," he went on, enigmatically to Reba, "four and five per cent. first mortgage bonds. Nothing risky, nothing risky, nothing risky, Miss Jerome."
Reba stared at the little numbers.
"And if I should ever want a little of what's up there?" she asked.
"Oh my, oh my, oh my! No need to disturb those," replied Mr. Perkins, in his big-voice way. "No need at all—not with a deposit in your own name of something over $20,000 up above," he motioned ceilingward. "Just make out a check, just make out a check, just sit down and make out a check, Miss Jerome."
"I see," replied Reba. She showed no surprise over her deposit. She felt none. Sums of money exceed-
