"One thousand dollars," repeated Lawyer Tolman, solemnly and severely, "and here is the money."
Young Gillian gave a decidedly amused laugh as he fingered the thin package of new fifty-dollar notes.
"It's such a confoundedly awkward amount," he explained, genially, to the lawyer. "If it had been ten thousand a fellow might wind up with a lot of fireworks and do himself credit. Even fifty dollars would have been less trouble."
"You heard the reading of your uncle's will," con- tinued Lawyer Tolman, professionally dry in his tones. "I do not know if you paid much attention to its details. I must remind you of one. You are required to render to us an account of the manner of expenditure of this $1,000 as soon as you have dis- posed of it. The will stipulates that. I trust that you will so far comply with the late Mr. Gillian's wishes."
"You may depend upon it," said the young man.% politely, "in spite of the extra expense it will entail.
I may have to engage a secretary. I was never good at accounts."
Gillian went to his club. There be hunted out one whom he called Old Bryson.
Old Bryson was calm and forty and sequestered.
He was in a corner reading a book, and when he saw Gillian approaching he sighed, laid down his book and took off his glasses.
"Old Bryson, wake up," said Gillian. "I've a funny story to tell you."
" I wish you would tell it to some one in the billiard room," said Old Bryson. "You know how I hate your stories."
" This is a better one than usual," said Gillian, rolling a cigarette; " and I'm glad to tell it to you.
It's too sad and funny to go with the rattling of billiard bars. I've just come from my late uncle's firm of legal corsairs. He leaves me an even thou- sand dollars. Now, what can a man possibly do with a thousand dollars? "
"I thought," said Old Bryson, showing as much interest as a bee shows in a vinegar cruet, "that the late Septimus Gillian was worth something like half a million."
" He was," assented Gillian, joyously, " and that's where the joke comes in. He's left his whole cargo of doubloons to a microbe. That is, part of it goes to the man who invents a new bacillus and the rest to es- tablish a hospital for doing away with it again.
There are one or two trifling bequests on the side.
- the butler and the housekeeper get a seal ring and $10 each. His nephew gets $1,000."
"You've always had plenty of money to spend," observed Old Bryson.
"Tons," said Gillian. "Uncle was the fairygod- mother as far as an allowance was concerned."
"Any other heirs? " asked Old Bryson.
"None." Gillian frowned at his cigarette and kicked the upholstered leather of a divan uneasily.
There is a Miss Hayden, a ward of my uncle, who lived in his house. She's a quiet thing - musical - the daughter of somebody who was unlucky enough to be his friend. I forgot to say that she was in on the seal ring and $10 joke, too. I wish I had been.
Then I could have had two bottles of brut, tipped the waiter with the ring and had the whole business off my bands. Don't be superior and insulting, Old Bry- son - tell me what a fellow can do with a thousand dollars."
Old Bryson rubbed his glasses and smiled. And when Old Bryson smiled, Gillian knew that be in- tended to be more offensive than ever.
"A thousand dollars," lie said, "means much or little. One man may buy a happy home with it and laugh at Rockefeller. Another could send his wife South with it and save her life. A thousand dollars would buy pure milk for one hundred babies during June, July, and August and save fifty of their lives.
You could count upon a half hour's diversion with it at faro in one of the fortified art galleries. It would furnish an education to an ambitious boy. I am told that a genuine Corot was secured for that amount in an auction room yesterday. You could move to a New Hampshire town and live respectably two years on it. You could rent Madison Square Garden for one evening with it, and lecture your audience, if you should have one, on the precariousness of the pro- fession of heir presumptive."
"People might like you, Old Bryson," said Gillian, always unruffled, "if you wouldn't moralize. I asked you to tell me what I could do with a thousand dollars."
"You?" said Bryson, with a gentle laugh.
"Why, Bobby Gillian, there's only one logical thing you could do. You can go buy Miss Lotta Lauriere a diamond pendant with the money, and then take yourself off to Idaho and inflict, your presence upon a ranch. I advise a sheep ranch, as I have a particular dislike for sheep."
"Thanks," said Gillian, rising, "I thought I could depend upon you, Old Bryson. You've hit on the very scheme. I wanted to chuck the money in a lump, for I've got to turn in an account for it, and I hate itemizing."
Gillian phoned for a cab and said to the driver:
"The stage entrance of the Columbine Theatre."-
Miss Lotta Lauriere was assisting nature with a powder puff, almost ready for her call at a crowded Matinee, when her dresser mentioned the name of Mr.
Gillian.
"Let it in," said Miss Lauriere. " Now, what is it, Bobby? I'm going on in two minutes."
"Rabbit-foot your right ear a little," suggested Gillian, critically. " That's better. It won't take two minutes for me. What do you say to a little thing in the pendant line? I can stand three ciphers with a figure one in front of 'em."
"Oh, just as you say," carolled Miss Lauriere. my right glove, Adams. Say, Bobby, did you see that necklace Della Stacey had on the other night?
Twenty-two hundred dollars it cost at Tiffany's.
But, of course -pull my sash a little to the left, Adams."
"Miss Lauriere for the opening chorus!" cried the call boy without.
Gillian strolled out to where his cab was waiting.
"What would you do with a thousand dollars if you had it?" be asked the driver.
"Open a s'loon," said the cabby, promptly and huskily. " I know a place I could take money in with both hands. It's a four-story brick on a corner.
