One morning Keith was sitting in his office cogitating these things. His
door opened and a meek, mild little wisp of a man sidled in. He held his
hat in his hand, revealing clearly sandy hair and a narrow forehead. His
eyebrows and lashes were sandy, his eyes pale blue, his mouth weak but
obstinate. On invitation he seated himself on the edge of the chair, and
laid his hat carefully beside him on the floor.

"I am Dr. Jacob Jones," he said, blinking at Keith. "You have heard of me?"

"I am afraid I have not," said Keith pleasantly.

The little man sighed.

"I have held the City Hospital contract for three years," he explained,
"and they owe me a lot of money. I thought you might collect some of it."

"I think if you'd put in a claim through the usual channels you'd receive
your dues," advised Keith, somewhat puzzled. He had not heard that the city
was refusing to pay legitimate claims.

"I've done that, and they've given me these," said Doctor Jones, handing
Keith a bundle of papers.

Keith glanced at them.

"This is 'scrip,'" he said. "It's perfectly good. When the city is without
current funds it issues this scrip, bearing interest at 3 per cent. a
month. It's all right."

"Yes, I know," said the little man ineffectually, "but I don't want scrip."