"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Girard, who was thoroughly vexed by the opposition of the other, "I'll wager five hundred dollars that I can ride in my gig from here to my farm, spend two hours there, and return before you can make your million of dots with ink."
The cashier, after a moment's reflection, accepted the wager, and Mr. Girard departed to his farm. He returned in a few hours, confident that he had won. The cashier met him with a smile.
"Where is my money?" asked Girard, triumphantly.
"The money is mine," replied the cashier. "Come and see."
He led the merchant to an unused room of the bank, and there, to his dismay, Girard saw the walls and ceiling covered with spots of ink, which the cashier had dashed on them with a brush.
"Do you mean to say there are a million of dots here?" he cried, angrily.
"Count them, and see," replied his subordinate, laughing.
"You know the wager was a million of dots with ink."
"But I expected you would make them with the pen."
"I did not undertake any thing of the kind."
The joke was too good, and the merchant not only paid the amount of the wager, but the cost of cleaning the walls.
In 1810 the question of renewing the charter of the old Bank of the United States was actively discussed. Girard was a warm friend of that institution, which he believed had been the cause of a very great part of