The month with Robb was nearly up, and Evan was beginning to look for another lodging. He had a suspicion that his old friend was putting himself out by entertaining another at four dollars a week. He knew it would be useless to mention the matter to Robb; he decided that the only thing for him to do was to vacate, then watch his chance to serve the ex-manager a good turn some day. He really believed Robb was paying Mrs. Greig extra on account of the accommodation.
As they sat, now, talking over trivialities, Evan told his friend that he had found a new boarding-house, which, of course, he had not. The ex-manager drew a breath deep enough to be a sigh.
"I guess it's better, Evan," he said, thoughtfully; "but I hate to see you go. Not only because I will miss your company, but I would like to knock the bank-bug out of your head. That was one reason why I wanted you here in the first place. I haven't been lucky in turning you up a job anywhere else just yet, but I'm going to get one for you, and going to hold you to your promise."
"If you can show me," answered Nelson, "where I'll be better off, it's me for the new job."
The small increase had not affected Evan seriously.
"I've been showing you all along that you couldn't be worse off than you are, haven't I?" said Robb.
Evan was not sure; he had had no business experience outside of the bank; naturally the only job he had ever had looked good to him.
The day after the increases Sam Robb had been off duty again; but the accountant had said nothing, considering, perhaps, that the Mt. Alban ex-manager had been "called" substantially enough in the reduction of his salary.
Robb had been quiet since his latest rebuke, and since the drunk following it had not been absent from duty a single day. All the same, he had been drinking steadily, quietly. Nelson often felt like doing something about it; he had no idea what. Always when the impulse came to him he closed his half-opened lips, leaned back in his chair, and kept his troubled thoughts to himself.
May was past her prime. The "Island" was becoming more popular every night, and the Sunday crowds at Scarboro grew rapidly. Robb and Evan walked down University Avenue to the bank.
"Well, we'll have a rest to-morrow," said Robb. "I'm getting to be an old man, and as long as I remember we've celebrated the 24th."
"I guess we always will remember Queen Victoria," replied Evan, "but I'm going to work tomorrow. Jack has to transfer his ledger, and I promised to help him."
Robb looked daggers at a robin.
"There you are," he said, in a soft, ominous tone; "that's the bank. They give a fellow a post that keeps him going night and day, Sundays and holidays, knowing that if he gets up against it absolutely, some other mark will chip in and help him out. They get the greatest possible labor out of the least possible staff at the lowest possible figure."
Evan smiled, and repeated another bank chestnut handed down from time immemorial among the staff as a valuable exotic intended to satisfy the ambitions of those who had them:
"That's supposed to be good business, isn't it—economy?"
"Economy be hanged!" said Robb, "and good business be ——! Good business, my dear boy, is giving reasonable value. Whether you are a farmer, a merchant, an employe or an employer, good business consists in delivering the goods, or paying cost of delivery, as the case may be. One of the most valuable articles on earth is Labor, and when a man buys it a decent price should be paid. The Bible is a wise old book; doesn't it say that 'the laborer is worthy of his hire'?"
Robb spat against the curbing and went on.
"Do you know why banks build so many fine structures throughout the country, and how it is they can afford to purchase the best locations in all the cities?"
"I have often wondered," said Evan, meekly.
"I'll tell you: it's because of dividends that can't be declared. The banks' profits are so high they couldn't begin to share them in dividends; the public wouldn't stand for it. So they buy property, build buildings, and pile up capital. At the same time they are starving their clerks."
"But," said Evan, feeling obliged to stand up for the institution that gave him employment, whether that employment was respectably paid for or not, "isn't it up to the clerk? If he is willing to work for a certain salary the bank isn't going to throw money at him."
Robb, to Evan's surprise, laughed heartily, then sneered.
"My dear Boob," he said, "they've got you by the whiskers all right..... Now look here: the bank hangs a great big bluff from beginning to end. It tells juniors theywill bewell paid after a while—as soon as they are experienced. But it doesn't fulfil that promise. When the junior becomes a senior he is told that hewould havesucceeded if he had done certain things. Isn't that what they told me?"
They were at the bank. The day before a holiday is no time for distracting thoughts. Evan went in and concentrated on his work, and Robb on his. The conversation they had had must come up for future consideration. That is the way with bankclerk "consideration": it is always future.
Four weeks had made Evan fairly familiar with the ways of a city office. On the cash book he had a good opportunity to see the workings of the entire system, for the cash book is a concentration of all business; it is an itemized general ledger. Evan was rushed from morning till night, and worked many a night. Yet he did not find that in the routine which satisfied his intellect. He knew himself to be a machine; not a creative machine—there is no such thing—but a reconstructive instrument. He was a meat-grinder, a fanning-mill, after that a phonograph—nothing more. Yet, from sheer physical and superficially mental activity he was, in a measure, satisfied with his lot. He derived satisfaction from a comparison of his working ability with that of other clerks. He should have compared himself with a star in the sky instead of a knot-hole in the fence. There is a ridiculous, childish satisfaction in measuring one's self by an inferior, or even a peer. It is an ignoble source of content. But, aside from flattering himself into a species of content, in that way, Evan sated his natural ambitions in continuous work. The laborer is reconciled to his place because he really gets something done, though it be to another's benefit almost entirely: Evan knew he could not work so hard without accomplishing something. He did accomplish something—for the bank.
Evan Nelson was wearing himself out, body and brain, for much less than a living wage. The experience he got was no longer of value to him; every day's work was a repetition of the previous day's work. He had no time for study or advancement of any sort. For what then was he working?—the salary. Evan did not realize it, but, he worked night and day for that seven or eight dollars per week. It was all he got, therefore it alone must have been his reward. And year after year in the bank, it would be the same way. If the business did not keep faith with him, if it did not reward him according to his works, in 1907, would it do so in 1908 or 1912? No; it would keep up its policy of delusion and perpetuate for ever and ever its vain promises. Then, some day, it could, with impunity, turn on him and break him.
"Good morning, Nelson," said Key, coming to call; "what time did you get balanced last night?"
"I had a first shot," replied Nelson.
"Hooray!" cried Key.
"At ten o'clock," added Evan, grinning. "I couldn't get things rounded up for a trial till then."
"Oh," said Key, rubbing his chin. "They ought to give you some return work.... How are you feeling these days?"
"Just average," answered Evan; "I had to cut out the cigarettes. I never smoked more than three or four a day at the most, but I find that I have fewer headaches when I leave them alone."
"Fewer headaches," repeated Key, in his peculiar way.
Evan smiled, and dived into the calling, drawing the time-worn battered old Key in with him. After a while the little man said:
"I suppose you count those headaches part of the game."
"Yes," and another chestnut rolled to the floor, "every business has its drawbacks."
"And every horse has its hold-backs," said Key, wondering whether it would sound like a joke or a child-speech. When it seemed to be lost on Evan, he corrected: "I meant 'every jackass.'"
"I see," returned the cash-bookman, "you think I'm a jackass for letting the bank hold me back."
"Yep!"
"So does Mr. Robb."
Key rested his blue pencil on an amount and looked across at Evan.
"You think we're soreheads, don't you, Nelson? Maybe we are. But let me ask you something. Supposing you had worked twenty years in the bank, and then they gave you, with great show, a little branch down in New Brunswick; supposing you went there and found that the bank had practically no business because it wouldn't oblige the community, and you started to lend money on good security, believing that a bank should be an asset to, not a leech on, the country. Supposing you suddenly had the branch taken away from you, because you tried to make it, and were making it, a benefit to the community—and were sent back to a sweat-shop on reduced pay: then supposing a bright young fellow came into the branch with the dreams you used to dream yourself, when a boy—tell me, wouldn't you try to make him understand what a fool he was?"
For answer Evan asked a question:
"Is that what they did to you?"
"Yes, and that's what they've done to dozens of managers. Every other bank has done the same thing to some of its old stand-bys."
"Well," said Evan, "don't they do the same thing in other lines of business, in corporations and so on?"
"I hope not," replied Key, tearing a voucher with his pencil; "but even if they do that doesn't excuse the banks. I suppose all trusts pull off arbitrary stunts, but the bank trust is the only one I happen to have personal experience in."
"A fellow simply has to trust to luck, I suppose," replied Evan. "Some fellows seem to get along well enough in the bank."
Key grunted.
"There are two kinds that eventually get the best that the bank has—that's little enough: First, the willies with a pull, and second, the sissies who siss. The fellow with originality and get-up is choked off, sooner or later. He usually manages to offend head office early in his career, and the rest of his bank life is—like mine! There are occasional lucky ones, as you say; but personally I'm not very strong for charms and stars. A fellow who has nothing stronger than luck to bank on may make a good race-track tout or fortune heeler, but not a business man. Don't work for any corporation or at any job where you're, so far as the position itself is concerned, dispensable; unless you are necessary to your employer, whether he be a magnate or an acre of land, jump the job."
Castle was passing.
"Key," he said, in his falsetto-femina voice, "you're too slow at that calling. The clearing men need Nelson on a machine from now on. You'll have to do less talking and faster work."
The grey-haired clerk reddened, but said nothing, aloud. What he said under his breath was sulphur-tipped.
It seemed to Key that every time the boys took a minute off to discuss personal affairs or the world outside the bank, a jealous bank demon showed its teeth.
The sentiments of Robb and Key made quite an impression on Nelson, but he argued that where there was so much said against the bank there must be a good deal to be said in its favor. He might have used the same argument with reference to a national evil, for instance.
"Hey, Nelson!" called Marks of the C's, "are you nearly through there? We're in an awful mess here with the C—— Bank. Their clearing is balled every day."
"All right," replied the cash-book man, leaving a few odds and ends of his own work, "is it the Queen Street branch again?"
"Yes," said Cantel; "I think it's too near the Asylum grounds."
The savings man turned around and chuckled. "Mutt and Jeff get quite humorous at times," he said, pointing to tall Marks and short Cantel.
The paying-teller laughed, so did Willis and the cash-book man. There are moments of fun in a city bank, but they are brief and reactive. The boys never get acquainted to any extent. They rarely help each other out, either, for they all have their hands full, and every bit of extra work they do reacts on their own post at night, early mornings, or Sundays. Sometimes there is a utility man, but he either dies young or prays for a move to the Maritime Provinces, where he can recuperate in a summer resort.
"That's enough from you, Johnson," said Marks; "crawl into that pipe of a savings and close the cover, or we'll make you smell the leather down cellar."
"You call the savings a 'pipe,' do you? Say, Marks, you'd have seven kinds of delirium tremens if you smoked this pipe."
Cantel tore off a slip and looked up.
"Ninety cents out," he said. "Marks is familiar with seventy times seven snakes already, Johnsy. He's getting to the crocodile stage. Last night at the Gai—"
"Shut up, Cant," whispered Marks, frowning; "it isn't time for the great trump to sound, just yet."
"Who mentioned trumps?" inquired Jack Brower, one of the current ledgermen, who had come around to drum up "stuff."
The boys laughed in chorus.
"Hey, less noise out there," called Levison, already experiencing a "kick" from the laugh of a minute before.
Marks was about to waken Brower to a proper understanding when Charon popped around the paying-cage.
"Look here," he said sharply, "this noise has got to stop. What are you doing here, Brower? Can't they keep you in C's? What's the matter with the clearing anyway? ..... Nelson, I'm going to put this in your charge, and I want you to see that the ledgers have their stuff by ten-thirty at latest."
Thus another responsibility was loaded on the creaking shoulders of the cash-book man; but nothing was said of added remuneration. Every week or month, as a man increases his speed or loses his power of resisting imposition, he is screwed more and more tightly to the "wall," which, in banking, means a desk.
"Do you know what you are?" said Johnson to Evan, when the accountant had gone. "You're a darn idiot. Why don't you kick?"
"Aw, shut up," Marks butted in, "how's a fellow going to get out of it? Why, Johnsy, you'd have a hemorrhage if you ever let yourself dream of talking back to the accountant."
Mr. Charon might stop the noise, but he could never put an end to the conversation of the clearing men. They rattled on, like their adding machines, jabbing back and forth and getting off speeches that are never heard in vaudeville, but still turning out the figures at a rapid rate. They worked mechanically, and their minds had to find diversion. That it was not valuable diversion was due to the environment. In the first place the work was monotonous, and the mind naturally sought a channel of entertainment, rather than of thought; in the second place, one got accustomed to the line of talk popular with the boys and unless he mixed with them he was out of the swim and in a cold, silent current of his own.
Sometimes the diversion Evan permitted himself took the form of Frankie Arling. It was not often, now, that he thought of her seriously—that is, as his wife. Seven years was too long a time to look ahead. He could not, after a good many months in the world of business, realize Frankie as he had done in those old school-days; but he could still think of her, in an ideal way.
Would Frankie be proud of him if she could see him handling that mysterious jumble of figures called the "cash book?" He wondered how the "city" way, which he believed himself to be acquiring, would appeal to the sweet country girl. He smiled as he thought of summer vacation—not such a great while off—when he should go back to Hometon and—and what? He did not know. He couldn't carry back tales of success, for his salary was only four hundred dollars a year. He couldn't go back well dressed, because he was fifty dollars in debt to the bank, and owed a tailor's bill in Banfield.... Invariably thoughts of the girl he knew he loved brought him misery and despondency. Thoughts of home brought him little less. He might have known, from that, that either he or the bank was a failure; but a fellow of nineteen looks through a smoked glass. To say that Evan did not think is scarcely the fact. He did think, but spasmodically. The mind is a dual thing: the superficial mind can be employed on an adding machine and leave the thinking function free to operate in any direction; but before that is possible the superficial mind must be familiar with the object that engages it. It is not an easy matter to figure sterling exchange, for instance, and at the same time think about irrelevant things; but it is easy to run an adding machine, or even to add, and think simultaneously. On the cash book Evan found himself engaged in all kinds of work; on some of it he had to concentrate (although no "brain power" was necessary), while on some of it he worked mechanically. Whenever a period of serious dissatisfaction, brought on by something Robb or Key had said, troubled him, it was of short duration: something always broke into his mind and scattered the argument framing there. By the time he was free to resume the argument foreign thoughts had intervened, and his brain was in a muddle. Before the muddle could be dissipated by a cold point of common sense, something else had come along. And so things went. So the days and weeks went.
When Evan got a night off, sick and tired of struggling with figures and fancies, he indulged in some of the exciting amusements of the city, which were new and attractive to him, and in "quiet little games." He was slipping into a rut, and probably he would have stayed there for months or even years, like hundreds of other young Canadian bankboys, had not the poverty of his existence driven him to the temporary form of relief known among bankclerks as "kiting."
"Bankclerks are always hard up." This is one of the public's chestnuts. It is not a horse-chestnut, however; this one is digestible. It is a fact. The reason is, chiefly—poor pay. It is absolutely necessary for a fellow to either get money from home (even after three years' service) or to borrow and fly kites. Kite-flying is the last resort. It is simply a matter of cashing a cheque on your own bank through some other bank whose clerks are known to you, or through some outlying branch of your own bank, and keeping that cheque out (keeping the kite flying) until pay-day comes and you can deposit to meet it. There is nothing dishonest in the transaction: customers float cheques all the time. The bank cannot lose through the kiting of clerks; only tellers who cash the kite can lose, and they know the "flyer" before taking a chance.
Sometimes a floated cheque floats home sooner than expected, and then there is some sudden high-financing to be done.
It was the custom in Evan's bank for the accountant to look after all clearing items on which exchange had been added by other banks. When the clearing men on the machines registered a bill with exchange they laid it aside for the accountant to see. The clearing of that 23rd of May was very heavy, and everybody was rushed.
"Here are your exchange amounts," said Marks, turning his bunch over to Cantel.
"Do you want them now, Nelson?" asked Cantel, "or shall I rush them up to the accountant and give them to you later?"
"Take them up," said Evan, puzzling over a badly-figured cheque, "and wait for them. He's been holding them back lately, and the ledger-keepers are developing claws."
When Cantel came back he had the exchange items, but he seemed thoughtful, and looked askance at Evan.
"Nelson," he whispered, "come here; I've got something coming.... Whose cheque do you suppose Charon kept back for further investigation?"
"Not mine from Creek Bend, was it?"
"You're on."
The cash-book man's face reddened.
"I didn't expect it in for three or four days yet," he said. "Dunn never would do a trick like that on me; he must have misunderstood."
Cantel laughed.
"I wouldn't take it so hard," he said; "everybody's doing it."
"I know," replied Evan, "but when I first came here Pen——"
"Forget it," said Cantel, turning to his work, "they need guys like you and me around here too much to kick over a kite."
So the "C" man thought. Every junior man seems to think that he is necessary to the bank. The older he grows the smaller he becomes in his own estimation, because in the bank's estimation. The bank understands the advantages of "depreciation" in stocks—and employes.
Before Evan could find a clerk who was willing or able to lend him enough to cover the cheque for eight dollars he had issued to pay board and buy a pair of shoes, Charon had set eyes on him from a distance and was beckoning to him.
The accountant had little glittering eyes. They shone out of his smooth, round face like boot-buttons from a lump of dough. He fixed them on the cash-book man.
"Mr. Nelson," he said politely, "I'm sorry to tell you that head office has just telephoned down and asked for your resignation."
"My resignation!"
"Yes."
"But Mr. Charon, you're not going——"
"It's not my doing at all," said Charon, interrupting; "anything you have to say had better be told to the manager."
Evan had never been introduced to the manager, but he walked into the big private office and started saying he scarcely knew what.
"Oh, are you Mr.—er—, the young man whom head office has asked to resign?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm sorry I cannot do anything for you."
"But won't you tell me why I'm fired?"
The cash-book man gazed fiercely into the manager's eyes. A thought for his personal safety probably decided the pompous old gentleman to compromise a little.
"It's on account of that cheque you issued—and—and—"
"And what?"
"And that Banfield affair!"
The truth dawned on Evan. He stood for a moment oblivious of his surroundings, thinking of his father and mother and friends. He was suspected. It was worse than Robb had said: he was not only under disfavor, but under suspicion. Head office had only waited for a pretext to fire him.
"But I didn't take that money——" he began.
"Those are my instructions," replied the manager, turning to his work.
Evan felt sick. He tried to make the accountant talk, but all Charon would say was:
"You'll have to grin and bear it."
"Well, can I see the inspector?" asked Evan, in desperation.
"I wouldn't advise you to; it will do no good."
Turning away, the cash-book man entered a telephone booth and called up Castle.
"This is Mr. Nelson," he said, "of Banfield. Can I see you, sir?"
"No," snapped Castle; "I'm very busy."
"But I want to tell——"
The receiver clicked. Evan was aware of an answering sound somewhere within himself, as though the ties that bound him to honesty and good-faith had suddenly snapped.
During the progress of the drama in which Nelson played so conspicuous a part and which he regarded as a tragedy, Sam Robb was at the Receiver-General's exchanging money for the paying-teller. He had not returned before Evan was gone from the office for good.
"What am I to do, Mr. Charon?" Nelson asked the accountant, after Inspector Castle's insult.
"Grin and bear it," repeated the accountant, thinking, no doubt, that he had hit upon a very happy phrase.
Evan felt that it would take all his moral valor to "bear it" without the "grinning." He fulfilled that latter half of Charon's command—it seemed like a command rather than a suggestion, to the bank-trained clerk—three or four years later.
"But what about the fifty dollars I owe the bank?" he asked.
"I suppose you'll have to put it up," said Charon, studying the expression of the face before him.
"But there is three months' salary coming to me, according to the Rules and Regulations," replied Evan.
The accountant did not have to scratch his head; apparently he was prepared to act deliberately.
"Well," he said, "since they haven't said anything about the silver you had better say nothing. We are paying you two weeks in advance; let it go at that."
For a moment Evan figured. There is no crisis where a bankclerk can't figure. Three months' salary would be $90. That was coming to him. But he owed the bank $50, and they had paid him $15 more than was due, leaving only $25 due him. It would not pay to fight them for so small an amount. In fact, he did not know how to fight; besides, the vim was knocked out of him and he only wanted to get away from that wretched office. A strong revulsion possessed him; he turned away from the accountant without answering, and his eyes wandered about the dark, bad-smelling office. He suddenly discovered that he hated every desk, every book, and the brazen-faced fixtures.
But coming to his own desk he found the work piling up, and mechanically he lifted a pen to straighten things up a bit before leaving. A good bankman, under any circumstances whatever, cannot endure to see things in a mess. Evan had scarcely taken up his pen to make an entry in the "bank book" when Alfred Castle glided toward him and said in a high-pitched, authoritative tone:
"Never mind that, Nelson; you're through here and we want you to quit."
The fired clerk was too badly wounded, for the moment, to be angry. Later, he wondered why Fate should have been so spiteful as to send Castle, above all others, on that humiliating errand. He suddenly remembered the way Alfred had greeted him on his arrival in Toronto, and came to the conclusion that from the first he had been under suspicion with that respectable nephew of the "Big Eye's."
Evan went down to the basement for his hat, not quite expecting to find it there; in truth, he would not have been much surprised to find the basement itself gone. Certainly, the foundation had disappeared from under a structure mightier and stronger, as he viewed it, than piles of stone and mortar. He had frequently criticized the office slavery of the bank, but he had never lost faith in the institution's magnitude and imperishability. It was the solidity of it that he had banked on and clung to, in spite of blinding work; but now the golden god had crumbled, like the smitten image of Daniel's dream—so far as Evan was concerned. The idol still stood for idolaters, of course, like that other image in the Prophet's time; but to the enlightened, the awakened, it had perished. And, to carry the analogy further, Evan, like Daniel, saw before he understood. He must have his vision interpreted for him. Time would accomplish that. Just now he gazed and wondered. Clearly he saw a ruin, but as yet it was inseparable debris, and the sight of it put his head in a muddle.... While he washed his hands in the basement he stared at the wall, and looking away from that his eyes met those of Bill Watson.
"Hello," said Bill, hurriedly, "what are you fooling away your time down here for at this hour of the day? You must have the c. b. down finer than ever I got it, Nelsy. By gum, you've travelled some since you came here; I was on the job six months——"
Watson paused suddenly.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
Evan saw that Bill was uninformed. Such is the rush of a city office that one man does not know what happens to another, until the pipes are lit and "chewing the fat" commences.
In a few words Nelson told his old desk-mate what had happened. Bill was speechless. He did not even swear. He stood looking at Evan, but his eyes seemed too wide-open to see anything. While he was trying to frame words the voice of Charon sounded at the head of the basement stairs.
"Watson, Watson!" A customer was probably waiting to deposit.
Urgent as was the accountant's voice, Bill delayed long enough to shake hands and say:
"Come up and see me at the boarding-house; I want to tell you something."
Evan half promised—but never went. The next time he saw Bill they were far away from Toronto and banking.
As the cash-book man walked through the office with his hat in his hand, Marks, the C man, shouted:
"Hey, the banks are balanced!"
Evidently the accountant had kept the matter quiet. The boys who happened to see Nelson pass out of the front door probably thought he was taken with one of his violent headaches, and had gone for a druggist's dose. He had done that several times during his cash-book experience. Once he had been taken with an acute indigestion pain and a doctor was called in. The doctor advised him to take a taxi home. A few days later the bankclerk was presented with a bill for $3.50—half a week's salary. The indigestion, needless to say, had been caused by eating a cold lunch under the nervous excitement of waiting work. Another time he had been searching in the vault for a package of old vouchers and a book had fallen on him, breaking both lenses of his glasses: cost $4.50—more than half a week's pay. Those things were all "in a day's work," Willis used to say. So were board and bed. The fact of the matter is, Nelson was given nothing and had nothing outside of a day's work; a day's work was what he lived for. And there are hundreds of Nelsons in the banks now.
As Evan passed Charon, the accountant did not raise his head; nor did Castle lift his. Evan did not care; they were nothing to him now. Neither was the bank anything to him. He cursed it; in oaths he had never expected to use he cursed it.
With the very taste of profanity on his lips, Nelson stood absently gazing into a liquor store. The shiny bottles fascinated him. He wondered if the stuff in them was all that it seemed to men to be; would it drown care and disappointment? Above all, would it bring unconsciousness?
He had seen Robb lying drunk, and the sight had interested him. Robb's sprees were not bestial like Penton's; they were dead, harmless. That was the sort of thing Evan, in his melancholy state of mind, would like. He had tasted liquor and it rather tickled his palate; why not carry a bottle up to the boarding-house and go in soak for the afternoon? He knew it was wrong, but he wanted to do something desperate; also, he wanted to make sure of falling asleep and forgetting everything. He thought of his mother and sister, and of Frankie, as he looked into the liquor store. That was just the trouble, he thought too much about them. What would they think of his dismissal? It would break the mother's heart and the girls could never understand. Evan was in a torture of worry. He wanted to cry, as he would have done ten years before, but that was out of the question—he was twenty; so he repeated an oath that made him shiver and feel penitent, then went deliberately into the wine shop. He bought two flasks of cognac, and slipping one into each hip-pocket turned up Queen Street to University Avenue.
Mrs. Greig was in the kitchen when Nelson reached the boarding-house. He went quietly up the stairs to his room, which had been done up and would not see the maid again that day, and shut himself in. Unscrewing the top of one flask, he put the neck to his mouth and swallowed two gulps. The room was warm, but he did not think to open the window. He sat back in a wicker chair and concentrated his mind on the liquor. How much would it take to make him drunk? how long would it take? He looked for immediate results from the first two mouthfuls, and finding none drank again. Feeling a slight nausea the second time he waited several minutes, and a tingling sensation succeeded the nausea. Then he gulped some more, and the flask was half gone. He settled back in his chair and his eyes grew heavy. Afraid the effect might work off he drank again, after which the room swam so that he had difficulty in catching the bed. His mind was acutely alert to everything for quite a while, although his limbs were incredibly heavy. But by and by he seemed to see his soul retire behind a black drape—and came oblivion.
It was after-hours in the bank. The boys worked away as though nothing had happened. It had been whispered that Nelson was fired, but each clerk had something in his own experience which he considered just as sensational as that. Far from philosophizing on the treatment accorded Nelson, some of the boys made his misfortunes serve to emphasize the reckless awfulness of their own careers, the uncertainty of which was a source of pride and self-congratulation. There are bank-fools who take delight in the very unsubstantiality of their occupation; instead of treating their avocation with the seriousness one's life-work deserves, they look upon it as a game or a joke. These fellows are greatly in the minority, of course; but usually a city office harbors several of the type. Two or three of them had their heads together around the cash-book desk, where Marks was now reigning monarch.
"Shut up, will you," bawled the ex-C man, flushed with the worry of a new post; "it's a wonder they wouldn't fire —— things like you instead of a good man."
Marks was speaking to boys of longer service in the bank than himself; but it is an unwritten law that the cash-book man is supreme in his own circle—and the gabblers mentioned were standing on one of the radii. They glanced at his red face, his burly figure and small ankles, and gradually moved away.
In the furnace-room three old clerks were solemnly conversing, like the ghosts of departed bank-victims once incarcerated there.
"It's the old story, Sam," said Key, referring to something Robb had been saying about the Banfield affair; "Penton has gone there so recently the bank couldn't transfer him without rousing suspicion in the minds of Banfield customers; so they made Nelson the goat."
"They couldn't do it in Banfield, though," suggested Willis, "because everybody there must know the boy is honest. They moved him to the city to get him out of the way, and then waited a chance to fire him on a trumped-up charge."
Robb turned his head and expectorated on the concrete floor.
"Boys," he said, "it's too dirty to talk about. It's like them, by ——, it's like them! They know that Penton is the thief and crook, but they are afraid of losing business if they move him away. Evans tells me another bank had a man up there and thought of opening. Old Castle knows that, and he's afraid of giving a bad impression by shifting managers. But he wants to make Penton believe that head office trusts him, and in order to do that he fires the poor innocent kid. In cases like this, to justify its bluff about seeing and knowing everything that goes on, the bankmusthave a suspicion, the wrongmustbe atoned for. If it will not answer to convict the guilty one look for a goat. It doesn't matter a hang to the bank whether a fellow's reputation is ruined or not. Bah! I'm sick of it."
Willis smiled around the stem of his pipe.
"I wonder," he said, "what they'll do with Penton. They certainly must suspect him. They at least must know he's a booze fighter."
"Oh, don't worry," replied Key, "they're watching him. It doesn't suit their present purpose to fire him, therefore they keep him on; but they know perfectly well he won't try any more of his monkey work for a while. They'll soak him some time, when the psychological moment comes. I used to know the son-of-a-gun; he's a yellow dog, and he'll be good now for a while out of pure cowardice. As for drinking, he's not the only bank manager who souses regularly. They'll stand for him a while, until it will look reasonable to move him."
Robb grunted.
"They know Penton wouldn't take a chance on anything big in the way of a personal loan from the cash, and they'd rather have a teller lose fifty now and then than to lose business."
In that strain the three old clerks talked about the Business they had once—and their relatives still—worshipped.
Quite early Sam Robb arrived at the boarding-house. He met Mrs. Greig on the verandah and looked for signs of news in her eyes. But she merely wished him good-evening.
"Has Nelson been home yet?" he asked, forgetting to speak about the beautiful May weather.
"No, I don't think so," said Mrs. Greig.
"I suppose he went over to the Island," thought Robb; "although that wouldn't seem like Evan. I'll bet this thing has bust him all up."
Absent-mindedly Robb turned the knob of his room door and walked in. He uttered a whispered exclamation.
On the bed, in his clothes, lay the ex-cash-book man, dead to the world, as he wanted to be. An uncorked flask almost empty stood on the dresser, and beside it an unopened flask.
For a moment the humor of the situation struck Robb, and he laughed silently in a chair. But by degrees his face sobered, and he gazed pensively out of the window, a shade of sadness reflected in his countenance. At length he rose and taking the flasks from the dresser emptied their contents in a basin. Then he took off the sleeper's shoes and undressed him by degrees. Evan groaned during the exercise but did not waken. He slept through, indeed, until the following morning.
Very early he crawled out of bed and doused himself in the bath-tub. He was sick at his stomach and his head felt like a hogshead; unaccustomed to liquor as he was, the cognac had taken violent effect. He staggered, although perfectly "sober," and wondered if he would ever get his shoes laced. His room-mate in the bed opposite him heard the rummaging.
"Good night, Evan," he said sleepily, as though just turning in.
For a moment Evan was confused and actually thought it must be evening, but a smothered chuckle from beneath the sheets of the other bed notified him that it was really the morning after.
"What time is it?" he asked; "my watch has stopped."
Robb made an effort to keep sober, more than Evan had done the previous day, and told the time. He dressed with his back to the young man, indulging the while in inward bursts of merriment. The soberness of Evan's countenance made it all the more difficult for his friend to contain himself.
Evan did not suspect that Robb was enjoying a one-sided entertainment, until a mirror betrayed the fact; then he, himself, laughed. The louder he laughed, the louder he wanted to laugh. The old clerk joined him frankly, and when they had done, cried—
"Isn't this a ridiculous world?"
Evan agreed that it was. Gradually he lost his sense of humor, however, for after-intoxication is a series of reactions, and a headache reminded him that alcohol was said to be hard on the nerves.
"Where are you going?" Sam asked him, as Evan took his straw hat from a hook.
"Out in the air," he said; "I feel rotten."
"Get some good strong coffee, Evan; that will fix you up sooner than anything. Fresh air is too natural a remedy to cure an unnatural thing like a drunk, especially a fellow's first drunk."
Again the elder man laughed, and this time he begged his young friend's pardon.
"You mustn't be sore on me for having such a good time at your expense," he said; "but really I never saw anything quite so funny in my life. You the temperate and sober-minded cash-book man.... By the way, you must stick around here until you land a job."
Nelson began to say that he was under too great obligation already, and felt that it would hardly be square; but Robb interrupted him with a couple of powerful expletives, and they agreed to another week's companionship.
After coffee Evan thought he would like to walk down University Avenue with Robb, and did so for a few blocks; but the lightness of his head counselled a shady and steady bench. He fell by the wayside.
"Just rest up to-day, old man," advised Sam, "and don't worry. It's very dangerous to stew when you're already pickled."
Evan smiled half-heartedly and promised to spend the day at Island Park.
"I'm glad you're not coming all the way," said Robb, without much humor in his face.
"Why?"
"I wouldn't want your destination to be the bank, for fear it might sometime get to be your destiny—like mine."
"Are you glad they fired me?"
"Not exactly, Evan; but I'm glad you're out."
"What do you think of the way they did it?"
Robb glowered at a passing limousine.
"Don't ask me," he said fiercely. "From now on my daily prayer is for a chance to get back at them. I hope it will come. All my life in the business, Evan, I've seen instances, like this, of the bank's mercilessness. I'm sick and tired of it. It's you who are lucky, my lad, and I who am unlucky."
"Still," said Evan, "it's an awful thing to feel that you're suspected of being a thief."
Robb's eyes flamed.
"They don't think it," he said sharply; "the rascals know you are innocent! It is not their opinion that hurts, Evan, but their influence—I hope—" He did not finish it. "I wonder," he continued, "if these fellows know what it is to hear their hearts beat? They claim to be big men; they make a great display of affection among their own folk, but when it comes to showing humane consideration for someone, they can't do it. They only invest friendship or justice where it will, like the money they invest, bring big returns. The clerk is only one of the many who don't count with them. What does he matter to them?—they wear him out and pay him out for gain."
The ex-manager spoke with emphasis and his lips puckered as after a bitter expectoration.
"I hope," said Evan, "that some day you'll get a chance to quit."
"That sounds good, coming from you," replied Robb. "I only live on that hope myself. Sometimes it seems forlorn enough, though.... By Jove! it's after nine; I must beat it. I'll see you at dinner to-night, eh?"
"All right."
Evan watched the old clerk down the avenue, and he remembered the first time he had seen that gait. It was in Mt. Alban on a May day, too. The juvenile bankman had pictured himself walking down the main street of some town inside a manager's clothes and shoes—just like Mr. Robb.
But thinking made Evan's head thump. He decided it would be a good idea to catch a McCaul car and connect with the ferry for Island Park. He boarded the car, together with one or two women and a little girl carrying a lunch indigestible anywhere but on Centre Island.
The beauty and quietude of Toronto's rest resort and the sparkling freshness of the surrounding water, revived Evan a little; but a stronger liquid than H2O was around his brain somewhere, and the Island became uncomfortable. In spite of the pleasant environment he found himself unable to take his mind off the bank and what it had done to him. Early in the afternoon, he suddenly imagined that he could endure no longer to sit and worry, so he took the ferry back to the city and went to the office of theStar.
After inserting an advertisement for a position as bookkeeper—saying nothing about recommendations—he waited around the Star office with a crowd of other work-seekers until the afternoon edition emanated from the large mouth of a small newsboy. He felt more like crawling away in some alley and dying than hunting a job, but he was anxious to obliterate the bank from his mind; and besides, he wanted to have another situation before writing home that he had quit the bank.
Evan did not have the faintest intention of telling his people he had been fired. They would not understand it, he knew. How could they understand such medieval work? This was not a day of inquisitions or guillotines! But when he was established in a better position than the one he had left, it would be easy to explain that he had resigned. He knew that his father was not much in favor of banking anyway.
The first ad that attracted the ex-clerk belonged to an abattoir company near the lake-front. He wasted no time in getting to their office.
"Where have you been working?" asked the manager.
"In the S—— Bank," replied Evan.
"Why did you leave?"
"My salary was too small."
"Well, I believe you will be all right. Just drop in to-morrow morning at nine o'clock, Mr. Nelson, and I think I can put you to work."
The salary was to be eight dollars a week with good opportunities for advancement. The slaughter-house smelt quite pleasant to Evan as he passed it on his way to the car. He felt joyful at heart, and hopeful for the future.
But, oh, that head, how it ached! What sense was there in drinking to drown sorrow when a fellow suffered so the day after? His stomach was sick, and he couldn't endure the sight of a wine-shop. After all, he thought, the liquor was not a drowner of sorrow, but a procrastinator; and, as in the case of postponed debts, interest was added.
Robb was in their room when Evan arrived at Mrs. Greig's boarding-house.
"Well," said the old bankclerk, "how do you feel now?"
"No more booze for me," replied Evan, smiling.
Robb answered with a smile. "I'm glad you're not worrying anyway, old chap. Things will be all right before long."
"The reason I'm not worrying," said Evan, "is because I've got another job. I go on in the morning."
He explained about the abattoir company's offer.
"Well, you're the limit! What salary?"
"Eight a week. They asked me where I'd been working, and why I left."
Robb asked quickly:
"What did you say?"
"I told them the bank, and said I left because of insufficient salary."
The elder man was thoughtful. "I guess that's about all you could say," he replied.
If Evan had not felt so fagged he would probably have written home that he had a new position: as it was, he went to bed early, and arose next morning feeling like a human being. He walked down the avenue with his room-mate, who wished him good luck at Queen Street.
It was before nine when he reached the office of the abattoir company. The manager came in punctually, and gave the young applicant a cold nod.
"Mr. Nelson," he said, "I'm sorry we cannot give you that position. I telephoned the manager of the bank you worked for and he referred me to head office, who said they could not recommend you."
Thunderstruck, dumb-smitten, unable to say a word in his defence against the lies of head office, Evan turned away. He walked north to King Street, more miserable than he had ever been in his life. He wondered, behind his misery, why the bank would not recommend him; were they intent on making a criminal of him?
The day passed slowly. Evan waited for his old friend at the boarding-house, and nursed a growing headache.
"I was afraid of it," said Robb. "Bank officials justify themselves and the bank no matter what happens. Besides being determined to carry out any bluff they have started they will never admit that they pay a man too little salary. If he quits because of starvation pay they say he was no good as a clerk. The bank must maintain at all costs what it calls its dignity. Dignity be—"
Instead of swearing the old bankclerk sighed. He had often said he was tired; now he thoroughly looked it.
Evan sighed too, but chiefly on account of the pain in his head. He went to bed both sick and discouraged, but in an hour he was too sick to think of discouragement. Mrs. Greig had a doctor in, and the ex-bankclerk was given a hypodermic injection. It drove away his pains and sent him sailing into a pleasant land.
Sam Robb did not rest so blissfully.