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 “Now, Standifer,” said the treasurer, soothingly, “you know I’d like to help in this matter, but stop and think a moment, please. Every cent in the treasury is expended only by appropriation made by the legislature, and drawn out by checks issued by the comptroller. I can’t control the use of a cent of it. Neither can you. Your department is n’t disbursive—it is n’t even administrative—it’s purely clerical. The only way for the lady to obtain relief is to petition the legislature, and”

“To the devil with the legislature,” said Standifer, turning away.

The treasurer called him back.

“I’d be glad, Standifer, to contribute a hundred dollars personally toward the immediate expenses of Colvin’s daughter.” He reached for his pocketbook.

“Never mind, Uncle Frank,” said the commissioner, in a softer tone. “There’s no need of that. She has n’t asked for anything of that sort yet. Besides, her case is in my hands. I see now what a little, rag-tag, bob-tail, gotch-eared department I’ve been put in charge of. It seems to be about as important as an almanac or a hotel register. But while I’m running it, it won’t turn away any daughters of Amos Colvin without stretching its jurisdiction to cover, if possible. You want to keep your eye on the Department of Insurance, Statistics, and History.”

The commissioner returned to his office, looking thoughtful. He opened and closed an inkstand on his desk many times with extreme and undue attention before he spoke. “Why don’t you get a divorce?” he asked, suddenly.