Five Potatoes By knolyn hatch Last week I met a man who owed me five dollars. I told him of it. I took hold of his ear and jogged his memory, and he said, "All right. Ill pay you your mouldy money." Which was exactly what I wanted. He took a long book out of his pocket, and a fountain pen. The book was full of bits of colored paper. He wrote on one. He wrote five dollars on it, signed it, tore it out, and gave it to me. I told him not to be a funny ass. "It's your money I want," I said. "Not pipe lights." "Chump yourself!" he answered. "This is a check for five dollars." "Oh, yes. A check. I've heard of them. They're the things people forge and do time for, aren't they? Are you going to do time?" "This is a check," he said once more. "You take it to the bank, shove it under the railings, and they'll give you five dollars for it." It looked as if there were a catch in it somewhere, but I took it all the same. It was better than nothing; and besides the teacher had threatened to get his razor out and work on my grade if I didn't get an interview with an important man; and who could make better news for the Signpost than a bank president? At the bank I asked for the presi-dent. He was a fine man with his hair parted exactly in the middle. Only bank presidents can do this. It is called striking a balance, and they have to get exactly the same number of hairs on each side. I showed him my bit of colored paper and asked him to make money out of it for me. He took me over to a brass cage and pushed the check thing under the brass railing, just as one pushes peanuts into the money cages at the zoo. The young man looked at it, turned it over, sniffed at it, turned up some books, turned up his nose, and said, "How will you have it?" "In money, please," I said. "Ah, yes, of course!" said the bank clerk. "But copper, silver, or notes?" I chose silver, a color that I am very fond of. He dug up about a pailful of money. Five dollars looks like an awful lot in silver. "And now, tell me!" I said. "Can I get one of these checkbook things? It seems so nice, when you owe money to be able to write on a bit of paper like that. So convenient.' "Very!" said the bank president. "But before you can do that you must put some money in the bank. Then you draw checks on it till it's all gone. Would you like to open an account?" "I certainly should," I said; "but I'm afraid I don't know much about it. I suppose it's safe, and all that? And could I have a look at it any time I wanted to? Just to see if it was all right, you know! . . . Very well, then. And now may I look over the premises? . . . Thanks so much!" He hid nothing from me. He showed me the fastenings of the windows and the barbed-wire entanglements in the basement. He showed me his photograph, and the prizes he won at Sunday School for long distance text recitation. He showed me the references from his last place and his rent book (fully paid up). He looked like a man one could trust. "And if I should want my money back at any time," I asked, "how do I get it?" "You just write a check," said the president with the hair, "shove it under the brass rail, and we brass up." "And now I think you've shown me everything. I like your bank. I'm quite satisfied with your arrangements. I think it's a good bank, a sound bank. Perhaps the walls might be a bit thicker, but I expect they'll do. It's a nice light street, and I noticed a policeman outside. "So, if you will, I'd like you to take charge of this five dollars for me. Only promise me you'll be careful and keep your eye on it. It's the only five dollars I've got, you know. I've several dollars, and quite a lot of dimes and quarters, but this is my only five dollars." We parted. I have been around there once or twice lately. He tells me that they have still got my money all right. Yesterday he showed me three dollars of it. But I think I shall draw it out and put it under the mattress. I've seen a shady-looking man hanging about there lately; a man with a furtive, sneaking look in his eye. The bank president, too, has been seen eating chocolates, and I'm wondering how he does it on the money. I don't like the looks of things. . . . Page Twenty-four Supported by the COLLEGE BOOK STORE