"Dear Evan: Your letter just came, telling us you can't get off for Thanksgiving. I think it is real mean of your manager to treat you like that. I don't think the bank is fair with its clerks at all.
"Now, there's a young fellow here (an awfully clever and nice chap) who counted on getting down to the city, but he was out in his books, so the manager couldn't let him off. His name is Reade: we are going to have him up to the house for tea. Father likes him, and so do all of us.
"I'm going to a dance to-night; that is why I am sending this letter away in such a hurry. You don't deserve a very long one, though, do you? Hoping you spend a decent Thanksgiving, and wishing you success.
Yours sincerely,"FRANK."
"Success be darned!" mumbled Evan. The smile with which he had begun the letter had died down to an emaciated grin and finally evaporated between compressed lips. "I hope Reade enjoys himself!"
He went to the telephone and rang up two longs and three shorts—the post-office. Had he reread Frankie's letter and sat down to analyze it and to think, he probably would not have telephoned; but when a fellow has lost a summer's savings and a Thanksgiving dinner all at once, it is, perhaps, natural that he should feel uncertain even of his sweet-heart, and act accordingly.
"Hello," said Evan; "is that you, Lily?"
"Yes, this is me!"
"How would you like to go for a drive? You would? All right, I'll call for you after supper."
Evan rented a livery, and Lily's folk raising no objection, the young girl went out to advertise the fact that she had a banker beau. All the town wondered.
It is easy to condemn Evan for his flirtations with Julia Watersea and Lily Allen. If he had stayed at school, matters would have been different. When the mind is wading through study it turns readily to pleasure, but does not dwell upon it. In the simple routine of the bank, in spite of the books he read, Evan found his mind drifting to excitement of some sort continually. When he brought it up, there was nothing for it to settle upon. When he left Mt. Alban he was being gradually drawn into what was called the "social life"—a life that would make him an ideal bankclerk, but nothing bigger. Now, after a few months of ease, he found himself craving the whirl again; and he must seize any small pleasure at hand.
So he seized Lily Allen around the waist and acted sentimentally.
"You mustn't," she murmured, making no effort to release herself.
"I must," said he. That was the way he felt.
When winter had come Evan had saved enough to take him home for Christmas. He was very careful with strangers, especially when they wore whiskers. He knew everybody in Creek Bend; especially did he know the Allens. After that night of the drive he and Lily had spent many an hour together. The result of it was that he let his correspondence with Frankie fall off, soothing his conscience with Reade. Occasionally he sent a picture-postal to Julia Watersea, too, and when it was answered in like manner he always felt better.
Christmas was nearing now. The snow stayed, to prepare the roads for Santa's outfit. The two stores of Creek Bend had decorated their fronts with tissue-paper and pressed raisins, and the post-office emitted holly stickers.
A village post-office is always interesting. That of Creek Bend interested Evan, not because of curious loiterers—themselves curiosities—but principally on account of its fair clerk. He admitted as much to himself. The village had him married to Lily, and he began to wonder if she really hadn't points over Frankie.
"Another of those bank letters you all look for so anxiously, Evan," she smiled, handing him an envelope from the Inspector's Department.
A few minutes later he called in the post-office again and beckoned Lily to the money-order wicket.
"I'm moved!" he whispered, excitedly.
Tears came into the young girl's eyes. Evan brushed them away that night with his handkerchief, but they would come again.
"I'll not forget you, Lily," he whispered.
And he never would forget her. In moments of introspection, in times of deepest thought, all his life through, he would remember her.
Christmas had come—again. A year had gone by.
Evan Nelson was preparing to go home for a two days' visit.
"Here, Henty," he said, "put your finger on this money parcel while I tie it."
The junior at Banfield branch had a large finger, just the sort for holding down a thong, although it guided a pen badly. He was a big, red-faced, shaggy-haired fellow, born to the physical strain of a practical agriculturalist.
"Henty," said the teller, as he waxed the money parcel, "how did you ever get into the bank?"
"Why?" grinned the junior.
"Oh, I don't know. You're too strong or too something for this business. If I had your frame I'd go into the ring."
"This is ring enough for me," said Henty. "I can have a round here any time—with the cash book and savings."
The ledger keeper spoke up. (Henty's initials were A. P.)
"Say, Ape—I'll bet you lose more good sweat making out a settlement draft than you would covering a pig-pen with old tin."
"Aw, forget it," said A. P., smiling good-naturedly; "the bank has worse dubs than me. I mean than I. Take yourself for example——"
"Impossible," replied Filter, the ledger keeper.
Gordon Filter was tall, lean and pale. He was a sedentary person and loved meddling with figures. He swore continually about his salary and blasphemed against the bank, but his work was always perfect and he was always watching over it with pride. Filter was what was known as a "fusser." He worked slowly, mechanically, and without originality, but he made few mistakes. He was a good clerk—that was about the best he would ever be.
There was the strongest contrast between Henty and Filter. One was as "sloppy," clerically speaking, as the other was neat, and as healthy as the other was unhealthy. A. P. would seal the last envelope of his day's mail with a bang and rush out of the office to a game of baseball; Gordon would hover over his ledger in hope of finding an account unproved or untransferred. He always closed his book gently and allowed his hand to rest on it affectionately before consigning it to the vault. The junior drew $150 a year, and Filter $250.
Evan's salary was, by this time, $350. He had been in the bank almost two years. No man can be in the business that long withoutearningat least ten dollars a week. In office dictionaries, however, the words "earn" and "get" are a long distance apart. Nelson was teller and accountant in a branch of four. The manager was delicate and could not do very much work. Evan ran the cash, liability and general ledgers, looked after most of the loans, wrote nearly all returns, and superintended every department of the office routine. He worked three nights a week and every day from 8.30 until 6.30, eating lunch in his cage while he handed out infectious bank notes.
His was the only bank in Banfield, a village of nine hundred inhabitants. There was a good farming district around the village; a big load of stock was shipped every week, and poultry and dairy products were profitably handled. The bank did an uncommonly large business, but owing to the size of the town, head office would not allow H. H. Jones, the manager, more than three of a staff. Jones relied on the faithfulness and assiduousness of his teller-accountant, and Evan struggled through each day as best he could.
The Christmas season is always busy. Fortunately for Evan, however, the manager was feeling better as the holiday neared; he took over the cash to let the teller away. Filter was too poor to go home for turkey, and the junior was waiting in great suspense for a cheque from home. Deposits do not constitute all the money that is paid into the coffers of Canadian banks: farmers and townsmen help the bank feed, clothe and provide recreation for its employes; they send remittances regularly to bankclerk sons who must keep up an appearance in spite of starvation pay.
"Leave the twenty-third returns for me, Mr. Jones," said the teller, with holiday courage and generosity, "and let anything wait you can. I'll be back the twenty-sixth."
"All right, Nelson, we'll get along some way."
The manager's words indicated that Evan was indispensable, which was practically the case. He did the work of two men—on the salary of half a man or less. He had been working slavingly at Banfield for a year on less than a living wage, learning practically nothing that would fit him for anything but bank life. He had even missed summer furlough, because of the manager's illness. The bank thanked him by letter for the sacrifice, and promised him "an extra two weeks later on."
What had kept Nelson interested for a solid year in the village of Banfield? Chiefly work; after that a lake and girls. How many years of faithful service do branch banks owe to the attractiveness and amiability of town girls!
His work alone provided Evan with all the excitement he needed, and when reactions came there was always a young lady to be paddled out on the water. Bank work is entertaining; few clerks do not enjoy it, once they have mastered the routine. Time flies when a fellow is on the cash in a busy office; it vanishes when he is also in charge of the office as acting-accountant. Figuring out entries and chasing balances is a fascinating occupation, like vaudeville, and just as precarious a specialty.
A conscientious bankclerk cannot look on a heap of accumulated work with indifference; when he is also ambitious he rolls up his sleeves and forgets everything in the debris of vouchers and figures. Like a mole he works away, his eyes blinded (to keep out the muck); unlike the mole he never succeeds in building a nest for himself. The heap diminishes gradually before him and he thinks he sees rock-bottom, when suddenly an avalanche comes down, obliterating marks of previous effort and storing up labor for days, weeks, or months to come.
Surely, there are few occupations more all-possessing than banking. A boy is under a heavy responsibility; the thought makes him proud; pride spurs him to his best; he forgets—really forgets—to exercise. Often he is so worn out he cannot take exercise without physical suffering. Moreover, the clerical strain makes him sleepy, and, as social affairs and night work prevent early retiring, he must get his sleep in the morning; thus out-door recreation is neglected. Whether or not it should be, it is. Excessive inside work takes away the inclination to exercise, and only those who know a large number of bankclerks understand how serious are the results of this diseased lethargy.
As he sat in the station waiting for his train to Toronto, Evan tried to recall one night in the year past when he had had nothing to do. He could not remember one. When he had not been working there had always been a village function of some sort to take up his time and consume his vitality.
His head ached now, for he had labored harder than ever during the past week, to clear the way for Christmas. There would be pleasure in seeing his folk, but none in the trip—although he was fond of travel. He dreaded now the long train-ride. He yawned and felt miserable.
In the coach he was unable to sleep, and too tired to read. He had no disposition to talk; the only pastime left was to think. He wondered if Frankie still cared for him; if his parents would be impressed with his knowledge of banking, and if the bankboys of Hometon would acknowledge him a pal. Selfish as it may seem, his thoughts of Frankie were indefinite, and confused with memories of Julia and Lily.
The motion of the train gradually rocked him to sleep in his seat. He dreamt he was being moved to another branch. When he awoke the conductor was shouting "Toronto."
Evan changed cars at Union Station. This was the second time he had been through the city, but he had seen nothing of its life.
The train out Hometon way was crammed with excursionists. The weary bankclerk was obliged to stand for over fifty miles. He was more than half sick when he reached Hometon. The train was two hours late.
Mrs. Nelson and Lou were at the station to meet Our Banker. Both of them kissed him. His mother was so happy to see him the tears gleamed in her eyes. Lou sized him up in her old way.
"Say, you look like a city chap, Evan!"
He smiled half-heartedly.
"Gee, I feel rotten," he said; "my head is splitting and I'm sick at my stomach."
"You look thin, dear," said Mrs. Nelson, examining him in detail.
"Oh, I'll be all right after a snooze," he replied, lightly, seeing that his mother felt considerable anxiety.
The 'bus was full; the Nelsons walked from the depot to their home. Evan answered the questions asked him on the way, endeavoring to appear cheerful, but took little interest in the old town. He drank a cup of his mother's tea, when they arrived home, then begged off to bed. Lou spread wet cloths on his forehead until he was asleep, and afterwards went downstairs to load his stocking.
"Mother, dear," she said, cracking a nut, "Evan looks fierce. I believe he is either worked or worried to death."
Mrs. Nelson sighed.
"This is a funny world," she observed petulantly; "it looks good from the outside, but when you come to find out it is a disappointment."
"Oh, mamma," laughed the daughter, "you sound melancholy. It isn't as bad as all that, you know. His headache will be gone in the morning. Christmas trains would put anyone out of commission."
"He looked fagged though, Louie."
"Most bankers do," observed Lou, casually.
Mrs. Nelson looked quizzically at the girl.
"Maybe I should never have encouraged him to enter a bank," she said, doubtfully.
The father came in, covered with snow.
"Hello, Santa," cried Lou.
"Did he come?" asked Nelson, returning his daughter's smile, but looking somewhat anxiously about.
"Yes," said Mrs. Nelson, "but he was tired and went to bed. Don't wake him up till morning."
"He isn't sick, is he?" asked the father.
"No, just a headache," said Lou.
By and by she went off to bed, upon which Nelson proceeded to unwrap several parcels he carried, and fill her stocking.
"It doesn't seem long," he said pensively, "since these two stockings weren't big enough to hold anything worth while."
"No, indeed, George. I often wish they were both children again."
How many times a day is that impossible wish voiced by the mothers of every nation!
Christmas morning found Lou awake early. She repeated the pranks of childhood, stealing downstairs in the dark to find her stocking. Evan slept on. His sister peeked into his room at daylight, hoping to find him conscious; but he breathed so satisfactorily she overcame the temptation to frighten him awake. Mrs. Nelson would not allow anyone to disturb him until breakfast was set, then she went herself to his room.
In his dreams he heard his mother calling him, and it seemed to be away back in irresponsible days.
"Yes," he answered unconsciously, "I'm up, mother!"
Mrs. Nelson enjoyed his dozing prevarication. It made her forget that he was no longer a sleep-loving schoolboy. She went quietly to his bedside and laid a hand on his forehead. His eyes opened.
"How are you this morning?" she asked.
"All right mother, thanks. Is it late?"
She told him breakfast was ready, and he jumped out of bed, whistling with surprise.
"I guess I'd better go," she laughed, when he seemed to forget the presence of a lady.
"Oh, that's all right," he said, cheerily. He was feeling good after a night's sleep in the bed of his boyhood.
Mr. Nelson was waiting anxiously in the kitchen—they always breakfasted there in winter—for Evan and breakfast. The former soon arrived, and the latter was then ready.
"Bon jour," said the father, without nasal and with a hard "j."
"Good morning, George," laughed Evan, using a phrase then popular in the "funny" papers.
Our Banker led the way to table.
"I'm as hungry as a cougar," he said.
Lou regarded him in consternation. "Why, Evan," she cried, "haven't you forgotten something?"
He looked at her blankly. "What?"
"I got mine before daylight," holding up her stocking.
"Oh," he grinned; "I've been away so long I forgot there ever was such a thing as Christmas."
"By the way," asked his father, "how did you spend your last?"
"Working," said Evan.
The mother sighed softly.
"You look as though that's all you ever did," continued Mr. Nelson.
"Oh, no," said Evan, promptly, "I've had some good times since that Sunday, a year and a half ago, that I spent here. I have had it sort of tough lately and maybe I'm a little run down, but things will ease off after awhile."
It is characteristic of the bankman that he lives on the hope that work will fall off. Someone is always telling him, as he is always telling himself, that things will slacken; but, somehow or other, the strings stay taut.
Evan was quite a different lad now from the schoolboy who first came home with bank idioms to tickle his mother with and dumfound his sister. As he sat at the Christmas breakfast table his countenance was subdued, almost worried. The long balance-night orgies were registered there; the fixed expression that comes from searching out differences and the strain that accompanies each day's balancing of the cash. Something more as well—debts!
All bankclerks contract debts. The careless ones do so thoughtlessly, the careful ones reluctantly—both necessarily. Evan owed about sixty dollars, tailor and other bills. A bankclerk must make a good impression on people; he must have a good appearance—head office makes that its business. The clerk's salary—that is nobody's business, not even his own. Evan did not mention the fact that he was in debt, when his father asked, good-humoredly,
"Making much money?"
"I'm living," smiled the son.
Lou thoughtlessly said something ill-advised.
"Got a new girl, brother?"
Mrs. Nelson blushed, but her Banker did not. He laughed.
"That's one thing we learn to forget," he said, brazenly.
The caresses of "sweethearts in every town" had had their effect. His sister gave him a rebuking look. He saw a question in her eyes and the shape of it resembled Frankie Arling's contour.
Some women prefer suspense to disappointment. Mrs. Arling evidently did not, for she asked, palpitatingly:
"When are you going back?"
Evan was embarrassed. He evaded the question.
"It's too early to speak of that, mother," he fenced. "Our manager is delicate and apt to break down at any time. I promised to be back—soon. I am the whole thing up at Banfield."
"Are you teller yet?" asked Lou.
"Sure," said Evan, "and then some. I'm pro-manager."
"Let's see," said his father, dropping a hot egg, "what are they paying you now?"
"Three fifty," replied Evan humbly.
It was not the diminutiveness of the figure that sounded so mean to him, but its association with the word "pro-manager." He was not ashamed of a low salary, but of a humble position. If he could convince his father that the position he held was responsible and man-worthy, he would not mind about the salary. Bankclerks are constantly fed with promotion when it is money they need, but they are so trained that elevation practically stands for increase, to them.
"I often run the office for days at a time when the manager is in bed," said Evan.
"And the cash—it's in your charge entirely, isn't it?"
"Yes," said the son, proudly.
Mr. Nelson took a deep draught of strong tea. Mrs. Nelson sat silent. Lou passed her brother a piece of fresh toast she had made for herself.
She got her brother alone after breakfast, ostensibly to show him her presents.
"Evan," she said, eyeing him as she used to years before when he had done something to puzzle her, "you don't seem very anxious about somebody."
He did not parry with a question.
"What's the use, Lou?" he said.
She thought a moment: "I guess there is no use of getting serious on seven dollars a week."
Her reasonableness comforted him and he told her so. They became as intimate as when they were children.
"You don't suppose Frank still—well, thinks she is in love with yours truly, do you, Lou?" he asked.
"Well—she doesn't act like it," replied Lou, rather indignantly. "You won't be surprised if I tell you something?"
He said he wouldn't.
".....Frankie is going with another fellow!"
Evan drew a silver case of cigarettes from his pocket, took out a "smoke" and replaced the case. Lou regarded him in amazement.
"Why, Evan!" she exclaimed.
He laughed. His mother smelt the smoke.
"My boy, I'm ashamed of you," she said, coming into the parlor.
He smiled around the cigarette, and said inarticulately:
"I don't smoke many."
"Why don't you use a pipe?" came a deep voice from the kitchen.
"I have a pipe," said Evan.
"Here, take a cigar," returned the father immediately, coming in to rarefy the atmosphere.
Promptly Evan twirled his cigarette into the grate and accepted a cigar with an adult air. Lou began laughing, but soon checked herself and endeavored to give the youthful debauchee a look of scorn. Unable to carry it out, she gazed out of the window.
"Oh, brother," she said, "come here and see."
He walked to the window. Strolling down the opposite side of the street, apparently on their way to church, were two young people—a boy and a girl. A glance told Evan who the girl was, but he did more than glance at the fellow. The two were coming nearer.
"For Heaven's sake!" said Evan, "I know that guy. Let's call them in."
Opening the front door he shouted:
"Hey, come on up and see us!"
Frankie hesitated, but her brave escort insisted and she walked shamefacedly toward Nelson's home. Evan allowed himself a few moments of rash merriment which greatly surprised his mother and sister. His strange actions were justified—if the women had only known! The chap who stepped in with Frankie was Porter Perry.
Acting on manners he had learned somewhere, the Bonehead grabbed Evan's hand before the latter had a chance to greet Frankie.
"Where on earth did you come from?" asked Evan.
"Oh, I left your bank," said Porter, importantly, "because they paid such bad salaries. Then the U—— moved me here."
Frankie distracted Evan's attention.
"How are you, Frank?" he said, feeling mean as he took her little hand and saw her blushing face.
"Just the same old way," she replied bravely; "you have changed an awful lot though——"
She did not mean anything sentimental, but that kind of an interpretation presented itself to her a moment after she had spoken and she hurriedly added: "You are thin and paler than you used to be." Her eyes alighted on the cigar smoking between his fingers. "Maybe that's the reason," she said, laughingly.
Lou drew her chum off to exhibit those trinkets again. Mr. and Mrs. Nelson were chatting in the kitchen, where the turkey sizzled.
"What post are you on, Evan?" asked Perry.
"Teller and accountant," was the casual reply.
"Gee," exclaimed the Bonehead disconsolately. He went in search of consolation.
"What do they give you?"
"Three fifty," was the still more humble reply.
Porter's face lighted up.
"I draw four fifty," he said, grandly.
"What post?" asked Evan, anxiously.
"Ledger."
This was the first time Evan had had one of the bank's chief shortcomings brought home to him—it makes little difference what a clerk's intelligence or what his position and responsibility, he will be paid according to the time he has served. He is not rewarded according to his works, but paid for length of service. The business offers no incentive to excel. Why work hard and honestly if you are going to get the dead-level wage each year anyway? Good clerks suffer because of the negligence of indifferent ones; but the former bring up the average of work—and that is all the bank cares. The staff of a bank is something to be worked en masse; the individual is an insignificant part of the works.
Perry seemed fated to be a humiliation to Evan. Bank luck had thrown the Bonehead into the spot where Evan longed to be, and had given him enough salary to live on, humbly. But more ironical still was the apparent attachment between Evan's old girl and Perry.
"If she could only have seen him balancing that savings in Mt. Alban," thought Evan, smiling. Then puffing out a mouthful of smoke, he murmured: "Bah! what do I care!"
From that moment he was jolly, to the point of humor. It was the mood of mixed feelings, prominent among which is jealousy, where one waxes jocose in spite of himself. Evan even rallied Frankie on certain personal matters. She did not take it amiss; it rather relieved the situation for her.
"Where's Bill, do you know, Evan?" asked Porter.
"No; his signature at Mt. Alban has been cancelled, but I don't know what they did with him."
"Either resigned or gone to a city," Perry supposed.
"I think we had better go, Mr. Perry," said Frankie, turning away from Lou's Christmas gifts.
"Why, what's your hurry—won't you stay for dinner?" asked Mrs. Nelson.
"Oh, no," said Frankie, "thank you. Mother has invited Mr. Perry up to our place. He wasn't able to go home."
"How was that?" asked Nelson, poking his nose in the room.
"Work," said Perry, professionally.
"Ledger!" murmured Evan, smiling inwardly. Notwithstanding, he felt more disgusted than amused—he scarcely knew at what.
"We'll see you again before we go, I hope," he said, addressing Frankie and her escort as one.
"When do you go?" she whispered to him aside, while the Bonehead was laughing at a joke he perpetrated on Lou. Frankie was beginning to weaken. Evan felt it, and it made him harden his heart. Such is man's disposition.
"Soon," he said, knowing it hurt.
She gazed into his unsmiling eyes a moment, then turned to Lou and Perry without speaking.
When she was gone, and Perry, Mrs. Nelson looked disconcertingly at her son. He mentally searched for something to hide his uneasiness and divert their minds from Frankie——
"Did you hear me say I must go soon, mother?"
"Yes, how soon, Evan?"
"To-night!"
Mrs. Nelson's dinner was luxurious, but to the whole family it tasted flat. Our Banker must leave early Christmas night. His Banfield friends had wished him "A Merry Christmas."
And he left without saying good-bye to Someone.
The manager at Banfield sighed in relief when Evan entered the office. An afternoon rush was on.
"Can you take this over, Nelson?" he asked, edging away from a cackling woman-customer.
Without a word the teller threw his overcoat on a stool and entered the cage with his hat on. Before the wicket farm-folk stampeded, struggling to get their noses against the iron railing and to blow their breath on the weary-looking teller. A heap of germ-laden money lay temptingly within reach of the rustics, only separated from those grimy, grasping fingernails by plate glass.
A shudder passed over Evan as he took his stand in front of the crowd. He felt something of what a martyr must feel who faces trial at the hands of a mob. It was market-day. The Banfield bank had made a practice of cashing the tickets of hucksters who came from Toronto and bought up the people's produce on a margin. These tickets had to be figured up by the teller, cashed and afterwards balanced. Many of the customers made small deposits, after blocking the way to leaf over their money with badly soiled fingers (surely they needn't have been quite so dirty!); bought money-orders, opened new accounts "in trust" for relatives, asked questions—did everything thinkable to harass the teller.
Besides the produce tickets there was the ordinary banking business of the day. Occasionally a regular customer came in to cash a cheque, and finding himself unable to get near the wicket went out in considerable of a rage, trying to slam the automatically-closing door. Evan was supposed to keep his eye open for these "regulars," but to-day his head swam and he was obliged to concentrate on the tickets to avoid mistakes. An error on his part might easily involve him in personal loss; but if he "made" anything on the cash, that went to Cash Over Account.
A loud voice was heard in the manager's office.
"I won't stand for it," said the voice. "If you can't wait on me ahead of these old women you can do without my business."
"Give me your cheque, Mr. Moore, I'll have it cashed for you," said Mr. Jones, conciliatingly.
"No, sir, if I can't——"
The manager, more than half ill, lost his temper.
"Go then and be ——!" he shouted, and left his office to the burly intruder.
Moore shouted after the manager, making sure every gossip in the office would hear:
"I'll report you! I'll report you—you're no kind of a manager, and I'll have you kicked out of here."
Storming, the big farmer strode from the bank. Henty, the husky junior, was red in the face. Evan looked at him and smiled.
"What's the matter, A. P.?"
"I was just spoiling for the fray," said Henty, comically; "another minute and I'd have thrown that yap out."
After office hours Evan discovered that the cash had not been balanced for Saturday the 24th. He had, therefore, two days' balances on his hands—hands that were weary already. It is always hard work to balance after Christmas; but when your head aches, the office air is bad, there has been an upheaval with a customer, and you have two balances to find—well, it is no fun. Added to his other troubles, there were the returns for the 23rd; they had not yet been written. Head office would be sending a memo.
Even a winter's day, in a Canadian bank, is not all gloomy, however. Nelson's boarding mistress soothed him at suppertime with a cup of her good tea. Mrs. Terry was a kind soul and a good housekeeper. She was the oasis in Banfield's dusty desert. Notwithstanding, no cup of tea on the most welcome of oases could have prepared Evan for the intelligence awaiting him at the office when he got back to work in the evening. The manager sent for him.
"Nelson," he said, "I'm going to resign. My health won't stand this business. I'm going on a farm."
The young bankclerk was dumfounded. To think of a man giving up a $1,100 position for a farm! Evan was not old enough to appreciate the value of health. He thought Jones must have had something organically wrong with him before ever entering a bank, and that now he acted on the promptings of a sour stomach.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Jones," he said quietly; "I've had great experience under you."
"Yes," returned the manager, "you're a wonder for your age, Nelson. Do you know how much you are worth to the bank?—just about what I'm getting."
Evan felt his head swim. He forgave Jones the unbalanced "blotter," and had a sudden notion that he could dig up, at that moment, any difference that ever happened.
"I'm tired," said Jones, "of being worried by unreasonable asses on the one hand and head office on the other. I'm sick of being a servant."
"How long have you been in the bank?" asked Evan, pensively.
"Twenty years, and my salary is $1,100 with free rent. I was pushed into the business when about sixteen. At that time banking was a profession that all young fellows envied. I was the proudest man alive when they accepted me. And my folk, they didn't do a thing but plume themselves on it."
The teller was silent a while.
"Things change fast in the bank, don't they?" he observed, reflectively, thinking of himself and his career.
"You bet they do," replied Jones. "Banking isn't the same business it used to be at all. Salaries haven't kept up with the times. A bunch of junior men are now employed to fill posts that experienced clerks used to occupy. The bank makes a policy of recruiting—even going to Europe, where clerks think five dollars is equal to a pound sterling—to keep down expenses. A boy like yourself can, by heavy plodding, do the work of a ten-year clerk. He may not do it so accurately, but he gets it done at last, and that is what the bank wants. He does it, too, on a wage that should frighten future battalions, no matter how brave and countrified, away from the business."
Evan felt, for the moment, that Sam Robb was speaking. He thought of the day he had accused Robb of cherishing a grudge against the business, of being "sore on his job." But here was meek little Jones repeating the sentiments of the Mt. Alban bachelor manager. It was enough to make one think. Evan did think, and he began to open his mind to a wider criticism of the business. He began to wonder if he had been cut out for a bankclerk. Why had Robb repeatedly made anti-banking suggestions to him? Had he seen incapacity for clerical work in the Mt. Alban swipe? Did Jones discern a similar inaptitude for bank service and hint things for the teller's benefit? Was there a chance that he (Evan) possessed faculties that must die in the business of his mother's choice, and that these qualifications were plainly visible to men older in life and the banking business than himself? At times Evan felt underfitted for the bank, and at other times overfitted. His spirits varied accordingly. Most of the time, however, his mental attitude "balanced," and inactivity of thought was the result. He had reached inertia of mind before his conversation that night with Jones was finished.
"Sometimes," he confessed, "I wonder where I am at."
"That describes the average bankboy," replied Jones, promptly. "He drifts along for years in just that frame of mind. When he rouses himself to thought a flood of work comes along and drowns him. Then he sleeps for another month or two. I don't believe there is a class of boys on earth who do less thinking and planning for their future than Canadian bankclerks."
"That's funny," said Evan to himself, "I had a hunch when I joined the bank that that was the case. Guess I've grown used to their ways."
Automatically his mind reverted to the work out there in the office waiting for him.
"Here I am, wasting time," he said, jokingly, "while two days' balances and a mess of other work are waiting for me. Is there anything else you want to speak about, Mr. Jones?"
The manager looked at him with eyes so unprofessional they might never have focused on anything so mean as a past-due bill, or a head office bull.
"Nelson," he said frankly, "you are the right sort of stuff to succeed. You will succeed in the bank: but take my advice and get out of it. If you stick you will some day be a city manager—but get out. How long have you been in the service?"
"Almost two years."
"Well, if you had labored in some other business two years, with the intelligence and ballast you have shown around here, you would now have had a desk somewhere and a phone at your elbow."
The teller smiled embarrassedly, and rising, asked:
"When will your resignation go?"
"Right away."
While the manager and teller were discussing the philosophy of banking, the ledger-keeper and junior were worrying a battered-looking savings. Henty was leaning on his elbows and yawning. His eyes followed endless columns of figures, while the ledger-keeper called from the ledger. Filter purposely called an amount wrong, and kept going. When he was five accounts past the "baited" balance Henty shouted:
"Hold on, call No. 981 again!"
"Well, I must hand it to you, Ape," said the ledger-keeper sarcastically. "You certainly have a remarkable pair of eyes. You travel several miles behind, like an echo or something, but you always get there. Why don't you save your memory all that extra work?"
The good-natured junior laughed.
"Don't be cross, Gordon," he teased. "To tell the truth I was thinking of Hilda Munn."
Filter looked exasperated.
"How in —— do you ever expect me to find that difference if you travel blindfolded? I'll bet a dollar we've passed over it."
Nelson came in the office.
"How much are you out?" he asked.
"Ten cents," said Filter; "this book—"
"Wait," interrupted Evan, "do you remember that deposit slip we changed after the calling about two weeks ago? Was it fixed in the ledger?"
Filter's eyes brightened. He looked up the account and found his difference. Henty regarded the teller with unsophisticated admiration, then, on the impulse, grabbed him by the muscles and commenced backing him around the office.
"Gee, you're a horse!" said Evan, wrenching himself free; "where did you get all that gristle?"
"In the back pasture," interpolated Filter, in jovial spirits now that he was balanced.
"Wrong there," said Henty. "I put on this stock of beef in the rear end of a mow one hot summer when the sow-thistles were bad."
While the boys were in good tune Nelson broke to them the news of Jones' resignation.
"The deuce!" exclaimed Filter, who rarely went higher.
"We don't need a manager," observed the junior, grinning, "when we've got a man who can remember deposit slips for two weeks."
Evan said nothing, but naturally he liked Henty for the flattering speech, the more so since Henty usually meant more than half of what he said. Praise is apt to be dangerous to one who draws Evan's salary; he felt himself growing more and more dissatisfied. Evan was awakening to a realization of his superiority as a bankclerk. He was a successful clerk, and he knew it; but he also knew, by now, that his success was due to labor rather than to special aptitude for that kind of work. He could not banish Jones' words from his mind; if he had expended the same amount of energy on some other business he would probably have achieved far greater efficiency than would ever be possible in banking. He doubted more and more that climbing steps into the bank was equal to shinning it up a beanstalk.
For a few days after Jones' conversation with him he was silent and thoughtful at his work. Instead of making poetic memos, like Service, in his cage, he made note of the work he waded through, and tried to picture himself in a private office. That was going one further than Jones' imaginary desk with the telephone at one's elbow, but the imagination is fertile territory.
It is difficult to say where Evan's speculations would have landed him—it is difficult to say, although the probability is he would have arrived where dissatisfied bank-boys usually do, Nowhere—had not W. W. Penton, the new manager, put in a sudden appearance.
It took Penton quite a while to get in the bank door, as he had with him a wife and two poodle-dogs, the latter property especially requiring much attention and considerable coaching before they would condescend to enter the office. Possibly their pampered puppy noses sniffed some of the trouble that was to come. Dogs are prophetic when there is something undesirable to be foretold.
Mr. Jones had gone out on the morning train and would not be back for a day or two. Consequently Evan, next in charge of Banfield branch, was obliged to receive the new dictator: such it was Penton's disposition to be.
He strutted through the office to the cage, where Evan was busy with a customer, and spoke half civilly:
"Are you the accountant here?"
The teller turned around, with a bunch of counted bills in his hand.
"Yes, sir," he said, "just a minute and I'll be out."
"Come out now," said Penton.
Evan finished waiting on the customer, who had been standing in front of the wicket long enough, and then obeyed the manager. The two looked at each other challengingly. Penton's expression was almost a glare. The teller stood his ground. He conceived a ready dislike for the tall figure before him. At length Penton extended his hand. It was bony and cold. Evan discarded it as quickly as possible and called over the rest of the staff for introduction.
Filter shook hands methodically, scarcely raising his eyes to meet the bulging, colorless eyes of Penton. Henty blushed, but his gaze was unwavering. The dogs barked uproariously, scampering to and fro like rats. Mrs. Penton, from the manager's office, tried to quiet them, but they seemed bent on carrying out the bluff they had started, imitating in that respect their male master.
"I've got an infernal toothache," said Penton, speaking to the junior, "would you run across to the hotel and get me some brandy? If that doesn't stop it I'll have to see a doctor."
His tone was more polite now. Henty left his work and went for the liquor. While he was away the manager and his wife took a hasty glance at their living quarters. She remained there with the terriers, but Penton soon came back for his remedy. When Evan went in he found three-fourths of the liquor gone, but the tooth was still aching. Mr. Penton was evidently in agony; he swore.
"Ask Mrs. Penton to come with me to a doctor's, will you?" he said.
Nelson rapped on a door at the end of the hall leading from the office into Penton's apartments. The dogs set up another hullabaloo. From his office the pained manager cursed them heartily. Henty was ready to bubble over with merriment, but the teller motioned him sober.
Mrs. Penton hesitated as she entered her husband's office. She could not have seen the flask, for it was not now in sight.
"Come with me to the doctor's, won't you?" he asked, with the suspicion of a whimper in his tone.
She looked behind her before answering. Evan was hovering near, to run errands or show them the way to a physician's.
"All right, Pen." She spoke timidly. Evan was sorry for her.
Penton was uneasy; he hesitated when Evan said: "If you don't mind, I'll be glad to go with you."
Mrs. Penton spoke out:
"It's awfully good of you, Mr. Nelson. Mr. Penton may have to take gas."
He did. Nor did ever a youngster take senna less gracefully. The gas alone probably would not have made a madman of him, but mixed with the liquor it did. In the earlier stages of unconsciousness Penton jumped from the table and threatened to kill the doctor. The country physician only laughed at the wild and, to Evan, appalling curses and threats of the temporary lunatic. It mattered not to that rustic doctor whether his patient carried a stiff neck or a limber one—he would do his work just the same. He happened to be a dentist, which was fortunate, for he needed dental knowledge to extract a great tooth from the patient. The further skill of a veterinary surgeon would scarcely have been superfluous, Evan thought, amid so much horse-play.
Mrs. Penton seemed very much upset, but she shed no tears. The teller wondered how she could look on at all. It was the first case of gas he had seen, and it not only awed him but filled him with repugnance. Painfully was this the case when Penton madly expectorated over an incredible distance upon the poor doctor's curtains.
Nelson had always had profound respect for whatever manager he worked under. He looked upon bank officials as something more than men. The reverence of his mother for institutions and things traditional held to him. But as he gazed on the squawking Penton, lying stretched out on a board while the village dentist-doctor dragged at a tooth, he had a sudden conception of man's equality and his likeness to the beast. Even bank-managers were poor, puling cowards in the face of pain, or under the influence of a little gas.
Having slept out his unnatural sleep Penton jumped dazedly from his board and rushed to the door. Before anyone could stop him (the doctor did not seem anxious to do so) he had reached the street. Evan ran after him, and Mrs. Penton after Evan. The long form of the new manager wobbled across the street toward the bank. Evan came up with it and steadied it. Mrs. Penton's face was burning red when they arrived under cover.
"I'm so sorry this has happened, Mr. Nelson," she said, "for your sake."
"Oh, that's all right, Mrs. Penton," he replied; "I always sympathize with anyone who is suffering."
She looked him her thanks.
"Mr. Nelson," she whispered, "did Pen have anything to drink before going to the doctor's?"
Evan hesitated before answering.
"A flask of brandy."
"That's what is the matter with him, then," she said, looking sadly toward the groaning unfortunate on the couch.
Penton was in a peculiar shade of mind. He made weird remarks at times, spoke sanely occasionally, and groaned continually. He kept his hand to his cheek and swore at the tooth and the doctor alternately. Mrs. Penton did not allow his oaths to embarrass her.
"I hope you won't mind," she apologized; "I won't ask you to remain more than a few minutes."
"I'm ready to stay as long as you wish, Mrs. Penton," he said.
"Thank you very much. It is so good of you. It's awfully nice to have a teller like you, Mr. Nelson. Mr. Penton was afraid—we were afraid we mightn't—you know, like the staff. I am so glad to find you so kind; I'm sure you will get along splendidly with Pen."
Again Evan was flattered. Here was a manager hoping he would not have to quarrel with his teller! That was, virtually, Mrs. Penton's admission.
Evan did not need this additional evidence of Penton's weakness. The toothache episode had satisfied him. He heard for days the manager's squawking, and saw before him the manager's cravenness.
Jones had come and gone: the new manager had taken over the bills and the cash. Penton's tooth was better, but he was in a bullying humor. One night he called the teller before him for review.
"Now, Mr. Nelson," he said, assuming an imperious tone, the absurdity of which amused the steady-eyed listener, "as you know, I am appointed manager here. This is my first branch, and I want to make it a success. Needless to say, I need your help, since you are my teller. I want you to see that the junior men perform their duties properly."
The flattery intended to be conveyed in "junior men" did not appeal to Evan. He sat silent, observing, never taking his eyes from the manager's.
"I want my branch to pay, and I want my town to appreciate the fact that a trained banker is running things here now. I am a friend of Mr. Jones, but I tell you he did things in an unprofessional way. I want things done according to the standard rules of banking. I am a disciplinarian, and the sooner my staff realizes that the better it will be for them."
The teller reddened with anger. Penton probably thought it was timidity. But as Nelson did not speak the other was not enlightened.
"Now," continued Penton, "I want you to be my mouthpiece to the junior men. Make them understand I am here to do things my own way. No more private banking methods—"
"Excuse me, Mr. Penton," interrupted Nelson, vibrantly, in spite of a desire to ignore with silence, "Mr. Jones had twenty years' banking experience."
Penton altered his tone.
"Don't misunderstand me, Mr. Nelson," he said, smiling a smile of defiance and diplomacy, "I am not knocking Mr. Jones. But you will soon see the results of my more professional methods. I got my training in the oldest and most aristocratic banking house in the country."
The lecture eventually came to an end. It was on a par with anything Penton was liable to say or do. Exhausted after the effort, he withdrew to his apartments behind the bank. Evan entered his box and slammed the door. Two faces flattened themselves against the sides of the cage.
"Boys," said the teller coolly, but in a tone they were not used to from him, "there's going to be —— to pay around here."
"What's wrong?" asked Filter.
"Nothing," said Evan, "but this new manager is going to get in wrong. I for one won't stand for his bluffing."
The teller went on to deliver the message given him. He scarcely fulfilled Penton's wishes in the delivery, however.
"I'm with you, Nelson," said Henty, very red in the face and ludicrously serious.
"You bet," said Filter, forgetting his ledger for the moment.
After locking up, that afternoon, Nelson went for a walk around the pond. He was sick at heart. He wondered what would happen under Penton's regime, he was certain something disastrous would. After supper he went to the post office, hoping to hear from home. He wanted to forget the bank and its worries for a while. Two letters were in the mail for him, one from Julia and the other from Lily. He dropped into the bank to read them and sat in the manager's office. A rap came to the office door.
"Come in," he cried. Mrs. Penton entered, wretched-looking.
"Oh, Mr. Nelson," she cried, softly, "I need your help."
He arose from his chair and stood gazing at her.
"He's drinking again," she said; and the tears flowed when Evan's interest was apparent.
"Where is he?"
"At the hotel," she sobbed.
Evan went out and hurried to the town bar. There he was, the tall manager, laughing insanely at the vile talk of Banfield's worst characters; drinking to the health of debauchees who pictured Heaven as an eternal beer-garden surrounded by living fountains and falls of whiskey.