Only subtractions were made.
There came a morning when but one bill remained.

It was a ten-dollar bill, bearing at its centre a steel-engraved portrait of Andrew Jackson.
He studied it in consternation, though still permitting himself to notice that Jackson would have made a good motion-picture type--the long, narrow, severe face, the stiff uncomprising mane of gray hair; probably they would have cast him for a feuding mountaineer, deadly with his rifle, or perhaps as an inventor whose device was stolen on his death-bed by his wicked Wall Street partner, thus leaving his motherless daughter at the mercy of Society's wolves.
But this was not the part that Jackson played in the gripping drama of Merton Gill.

His face merely stared from the last money brought from Simsbury, Illinois, and the stare was not reassuring.

It seemed to say that there was no other money in all the world.

Decidedly things must take a turn.