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He made me write the sum on a bit of paper and sign my name in a book. I no longer knew what I was doing. The bank seemed to swim before my eyes.
"Is it in the account?" I asked in a hollow, shaking voice.
"It is," said the accountant.
"Then I want to draw a cheque."
My idea was to draw out six dollars of it for present use. Someone gave me a chequebook and someone else seemed to think that I was a man who owned millions of dollars, but was not feeling very well. I wrote something on the cheque and pushed it towards the clerk. He looked at it.
"What! Are you drawing it all out again?" he asked in surprise. Then I realized that I had written fifty-six dollars instead of six. I was too upset to reason now. I had a feeling that it was impossible to explain the thing. All the clerks had stopped writing to look at me.
Bold and careless in my misery, I made a decision.
"Yes, the whole thing."
"You wish to draw your money out of the bank?"
"Every cent of it."
"Are you not going to put any more in the account?" said the clerk, astonished.
"Never."
A foolish hope came to me that they might think something had insulted me while I was writing the cheque and that I had changed my mind.
