A Canadian Bankclerk

by Jack Preston

CHAPTER VIII.

A SPORT GONE TO SEED.

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.