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 order more. It's time we put up our money. I'll meet you during my lunch hour to-morrow and we'll go to the bank."

So next day Bert withdrew his funds, and then he and Sam filled out a new account card and pushed it through a grilled window to a cashier who viewed them curiously.

"Shoppers' Service," he read, and looked at them again. "What is it?"

"A business," Sam said shortly.

The cashier frowned. "You realize that no money can be withdrawn unless you both sign?"

"That's how I want it," said Sam.

The cashier proceeded to enter their account. When they came out of the bank Bert asked:

"Who's going to mind the bank book?"

"You take it," said Sam. "I won't have to worry. You can't draw anything without my signature. That's business."

It might be business, but the more Bert thought about the remark the queerer it seemed.

Every day there was something to buy, and everything cost more than they had expected to pay. The bootblack moved out, the painters came in, stayed a while and went their way, and then crates, and packages and bundles began to arrive. Bert scrubbed the floor boards, found two small rugs in the attic, begged them from his mother, and brought them to the store. Sam picked up a small counter in the town, and bought