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James's, as Jamie McMurtagh and others in the bank always called him; it was his father who was properly Mr. James Bowdoin, and his grandfather who was Mr. James's Commencement Day; and it was the day after Mr. James's engagement as junior clerk in the counting-room; and it was the day after Mr. James's engagement to be married; and it was the day but one after Mr. James's class's supper at Mr.
Bowdoin went back to his bank meeting, which he peremptorily postponed, bidding James his son to vote that way, and he would give him reasons afterward. Going home he linked his arm in his, and told him why he would not have that meeting, and the new bank formed, and all its assets and trusts counted, until James McMurtagh was well again, or not in this world to know.
Mercedes looked at the old gentleman a moment, then ran after the oranges. Dolly still made excuses. "It is so hot, and I have clean gloves on." Mr. Bowdoin cast a quick glance at the envied gloves, and then at Mercedes' brown hands. "Here, Dolly, chuck those gloves in the carriage there: they're not allowed down here. McMurtagh, I'm glad to see your Mercy has more sense. Can't stay to luncheon?
The old clerk sat in a sort of ecstasy; reminding himself still that what he gazed at was not the greatest joy he had that day; when all these sordid things were over, he was to start, on the morrow, for Mercedes. He heard the voice of the cashier returning, and went out. "Well, McMurtagh," said he, "you're lucky to escape this miserable reorganization.
Then he remembered that he had been brought there by Mr. Bowdoin, and Jamie knew better than to think this. In a minute more the door opened, and that gentleman came out. Behind him peered the faces of the directors; in his hand was a crisp new bank-note. "McMurtagh," said Mr.
And so it was carried, in specie, in its original package: "Four hundred and twenty-three American eagles, and fifteen hundred and fifty-six Spanish doubloons; deposited by De Soto, June twenty-fourth, eighteen hundred and twenty-nine; for the benefit of whom it may concern." And it concerned very much two people with whom our narration has to do, one, James McMurtagh, our hero; the other, Mr.
He did not know many of the pieces; and McMurtagh, as they were held up to him, broke the silence only to answer arithmetically, "Doubloon, value eight dollars two shillings, New England;" or, "Pistole, value the half, free of agio." When they were all counted, McMurtagh opened a new page in the ledger, and a new account for the house: "June 24, 1829.
"Count it," said McMurtagh, with a gasp, as if the words were wrung from him by force of habit. "And when counted?" "Enter it in the ledger, Mr. James," said McMurtagh, with another gasp. "To whose account?" "For account of whom it may concern." Bowdoin began to count it, and the clock went on ticking; one piece for each tick of the clock.
"Bring the poor child down to Nahant next time you come to spend the day, and give her a chance to play with the children." James McMurtagh, with "the old man" and "the mother," lived in a curious little house on Salem Street, at the North End. Probably they liked it because it might have been a little house in some provincial town at home.
He opened one after another hurriedly; then, getting the right one, he came out into the light, and, finding the index, turned to the page containing this entry: Dr. Pirates. He dipped his pen in ink, and with a firm hand wrote opposite: Cr. June 22, 1848. By money stolen by James McMurtagh, to be accounted for $16,897.00
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