Literary Lapses

When I go into a bank I get rattled. The clerks rattle me; the wickets rattle me; the sight of the money rattles me; everything rattles me.
The moment I cross the threshold of a bank and attempt to transact business there, I become an irresponsible idiot.
I knew this beforehand, but my salary had been raised to fifty dollars a month and I felt that the bank was the only place for it.
So I shambled in and looked timidly round at the clerks. I had an idea that a person about to open an account must needs consult the manager.
I went up to a wicket marked Accountant. The accountant was a tall, cool devil. The very sight of him rattled me. My voice was sepulchral.
Can I see the manager? I said, and added solemnly, alone. I don't know why I said alone.
Certainly, said the accountant, and fetched him.
The manager was a grave, calm man. I held my fifty-six dollars clutched in a crumpled ball in my pocket.
Are you the manager? I said. God knows I didn't doubt it.
Yes, he said.
Can I see you, I asked, alone? I didn't want to say alone again, but without it the thing seemed self-evident.