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 MONTH later, as the office clock was striking eight, Henry G. Woodhouse came out of Dave Wilkins’s printing office with Angus Burke and walked across the street to the bank. Chet Bowen, the cashier, and Gene Goff, bookkeeper, office boy, teller, janitor, and what-not, looked up as they entered. It was their custom to say good morning to their employer and to be greeted in return with a dignified, “Good morning, gentlemen.”

But this morning neither of the gentlemen behind the partition spoke. The sight of Angus Burke entering with Henry G. struck them dumb. It was as if the Angel Gabriel were to be seen in companionship with a burglar. Chet bent over his ledger, as one does in circumstances which require his delicacy to make pretense of blindness.

Instead of proceeding to his office, Mr. Woodhouse stopped before Chet’s window. “Good morning,” he said. “This is Angus Burke, as you doubtless know, Mr. Bowen. He comes to work for us to-day.”