what Union Pacific had opened at on any day you chose to name. He had a passion for odd amounts. A flat million as a sum interested him far less than one like $107.69¾. He could remember it longer. It was necessary then to appeal to the poetry in the man.
A long time from across his typewriter he studied old Metzeger, tall, angular, his shoulders lovingly rounded above one of the ledgers, a green shade pulled well over his eyes, perhaps to conceal the too-flagrant love-light that shone there for his figures. Napoleon had won most of his battles in his tent.
Bean arose, moved toward the other and spoke in clear, cool tones.
"Mr. Metzeger, I want to borrow five dollars"
The old man perceptibly stiffened and bent his head lower.
"five dollars and eighty-seven cents until Saturday at ten minutes past twelve."
Metzeger looked up, surveying him keenly from under the green shade.
"How much?"
"Five eighty-seven."
There was a curious relenting in the sharpened old face. The man had been struck in a vital spot. With his fine-pointed pen he affectionately wrote the figures on a pad: "$5.87—12:10." They were ideal; they vanquished him. Slowly he counted out money from various pockets, but the sum was $5.90.
