The crate hit the concrete floor with a thud that echoed up into the high gym rafters.

“Four hundred twelve dollars in nickels,” Arthur said, his soft voice rushing.

By one o’clock the line of townspeople ran past the main office display case and out to the front curb.

People brought ceramic piggy banks, Crown Royal bags, mason jars tied with twine, and metal lunchboxes.

A woman in a blue knit sweater handed me a glass mayonnaise jar full of silver quarters.

“My late husband was saving these for a trip to Florida,” she said.