Orcutt. He thought he had me right where he wanted me--an' so did I.
Meanwhile, an' about six months previous, a young fellow named Charlie
Bronson--president of the First National now--had opened up a little
seven-by-nine bank in a tin-covered wooden shack that I'd passed a
dozen times a day an' hadn't even looked into. I'd met Bronson once or
twice, but hadn't paid no attention to him, an' as I was headin' back
for the store, he stood in his doorway. 'Good mornin' Mr. McNabb,' he
says. I don't think I'd of took the trouble to answer him, but just
then his bank sign caught my eye. It was painted in black letters an'
stuck out over the sidewalk. I stopped an' looked past him through the
open door where his bookkeeper-payin'-an'-receivin'-teller-cashier, an'
general factotum was busy behind the cheap grill. Then I looked at
Bronson an' the only thing I noticed was that his eyes was brown, an'
he was smilin'. 'Young man,' I says, 'have you got any money in that
sardine can?'

"'Quite a lot,' he answers with a grin. 'More than I wish I had.'

"'You got a hundred thousand?' I asks--it was more than I needed, but I
thought I'd make it big enough to scare him.

"'More than that,' he answers, without battin' an eye. 'But--what's
the matter with the Wolverine?'

"'The Wolverine?' I busted out. 'Young man, if I was to tell you what
I think of the Wolverine here on the street, I'd be arrested before I'd
got good an' started.'

"'Better come inside, then,' he grins, an' I followed him into a little
box of a private office. 'Of course,' I says later, when I'd told him