CHAPTER VII.
A BANK HOLIDAY.
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 without earning at 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.