A Canadian Bankclerk

by Jack Preston

CHAPTER X.

TROUBLE COMES.

By quarrelling with his wife and kicking the pups Penton managed to entertain himself, apart from the keg, for over a month. Then he went and did it again. He took some money to a place called Burnside to cash cattle tickets for a drover who did business at the Banfield branch. When he got back he was in a boisterous state of intoxication.

"Hello, old kid!" he said to Henty, whom he met at the door of the bank.

Henty backed up and went in the office again, to consult with the teller.

"This is getting monotonous," said Nelson. "What would you do about it, A. P.?"

"Report the son-of-a-gun," said Henty, florid of countenance.

"Sure," said Filter; "he'll be holding us up some of these days at the point of a gun."

Evan thought over Filter's remark, for he had been tempted to entertain similar notions himself. What might not happen if Penton got in a drunken craze? The teller worried more and more as he speculated on the possible outcome of events.

Mrs. Penton got the manager to bed and then came out to the office.

"Mr. Nelson," she whispered through the cage, "could I speak to you?"

Evan went into the manager's office with her.

"I know you are going to tell head office about it this time," she said, despairingly. "It isn't right for me to ask any further consideration from you. The business here will be ruined."

"I won't say anything," replied Nelson, "until some of the customers begin to kick. I have an idea they will not do any reporting without warning us, though."

The manager's wife sighed.

"It would be a relief, I sometimes think," she said, "to get back to the city. Pen was busy there and it kept, his mind occupied. I see there is no hope for him here. The trouble is head office might drop him from the service altogether. Of course, his relatives in Berlin are big depositors—"

"That might help some," said Evan, treasonably. Then, "Don't give up, Mrs. Penton. We may be able to scare him good for another month or so."

She made an effort to smile, but it was a tired one.

"You are my only hope, Mr. Nelson," she said, forcing back her tears. "I'm going to tell you something more."

He wondered what was coming next.

"Pen," she continued, "is in debt, I'm afraid. How could he help it when he spends so much on liquor? His salary here is only nine hundred dollars and rent, you know."

That seemed a great deal to Evan, who got board for $3.25 per week.

"Do you mean he owes money in town?"

"Yes."

The teller recalled what Filter had said Jack Hunter told him. If the manager owed Hunter money, he probably was in debt elsewhere, too.

"Well, Mrs. Penton," answered Evan, "I don't know what to say. I wish I had the money myself to lend. Do you know what I get?"

She blushed.

"It is only your advice I ask, Mr. Nelson," she replied, sadly. "As to your salary, I think they ought to pay you more than Pen."

Evan's chest went out an inch or two, but he found himself still unequal to the task of advising her. Things would have to take their course, as they always do.

Now, in the course of things, there came a very busy day. The manager had been sober for a fortnight; he sat in his office pulling at that long upper lip of his, and consuming inwardly with the fierce desire that drunkards know. Perhaps no one sympathized with him sufficiently. Who, after all, knows anything about hell but those who have been there?

Before the teller's box thronged women and men from all the country roundabout, smelling strongly of poultry. It was such a cold day that the bank was chilly and windows could not be raised. The aroma that arose before the wickets was indescribably potent. Evan felt his head swim and his stomach sicken. But work was behind him, pushing him along; he knew he must get through somehow. Filter was not able to handle the cash, especially on a market-day, and Evan would not have trusted Penton in the cage, under the circumstances. If anything happened the teller was responsible for the cash: he would be taking a chance on Penton—and a fellow can't afford to be a sport on seven dollars a week.

When a man fills a position where he is practically indispensable, so far as the work, not the position, is concerned, his job is his master. Many a bankboy, on the verge of collapse, is unable to leave for a single day his unhealthy environment. Some, like Evan, are tied down by circumstances; the majority of them are bound by their own foolish tenacity. All of them realize, sooner or later, that their labor was in vain. When their health is gone, like Jones', and their efforts stored up in bank buildings, those modern Egyptian obelisks, who knows or rewards them? If they find themselves, after years of service, unfitted both mentally and physically for anything but clerical work, and yet unable to longer endure the strain of it, what are they going to do? The man who sells his vitality is a fool, but he who gives it away is worse than a fool. The trouble with us fools is that we don't believe it about ourselves. Evan was sceptical of the harm bank toil was working upon his constitution. He would not allow himself to think his health was failing rapidly—or even slowly.

Silver was always in great demand on market days. In the midst of his rush, this very busy day, Evan discovered that he had not brought from the safe enough quarters to carry him through. A murmur arose from the stampeders when he left his box and walked to the vault. The murmur became a grumble when he fumbled the vault combination without opening the door.

"Filter," he called, impatiently, "open this hanged vault, will you? I can hardly see the numbers."

Calmly the ledger-keeper turned the combination, clicking it open unhesitatingly. He turned and winked at Henty.

Evan brought out a bag and deposited it on a small table in the cage, there for the accommodation of odorous money parcels and noon lunches. On opening the silver he found there were five packages of quarters, one hundred dollars each. He took one package out, tied up the bag, and set it under the table out of the way.

His cash was two dollars short that day. Too weary to look for his "difference" in the mess of work he had gone through, he put it up. But it worried him. He could not afford even so small a loss, for he was in debt as it was. His father had sent him a remittance, but he had sent it back, saying: "If I can't keep myself by this time, I'd better give it up as a bad job." He was too game, when writing home, to put blame for failure on the bank, so he took it himself. But he would not take money.

Locking-up time came late that market day, for the hucksters' list was enormous. The teller had paid out five hundred dollars in small bills and silver. He yawned as he packed away the filthy money in his tin box, and yawned as he carried it into the vault.

Henty and Filter were preparing to go up to supper.

"Wait, fellows," said Evan, "I'll go with you."

Penton sat in his office as the boys passed out. He had not initialed the teller's book, but had watched him lock the cash in the safe.

"I suppose you'll be back to-night," said the manager, not looking at any of the boys in particular.

"No," said Evan, "I won't. My head aches already."

But he did come back an hour later, and his head ached worse than ever, for he was worrying about the bag of silver he had forgotten to take from under the cage-table and lock up in the safe.

There it was, tied up, and how and where he had left it. With a sigh of relief he picked it up and locked it in the vault. Only Evan and Filter had the vault combination. Penton said he preferred not to have it, as he did not want to accommodate farmers after hours; it had never been done in the M—— Bank, where he had received his training.

It is customary for a manager to check the teller's cash once in a while. He is supposed to do it irregularly so as to keep the teller in constant suspense. Market day at Banfield was Tuesday. Wednesday afternoon Penton came round to count Nelson's cash. In the morning, first thing, the bag of silver had been locked in the safe, inside the vault.

There were two compartments in the safe; in one of them the "treasury" (a sort of local rest fund) and certain documents were kept; in the other, the cash box and bags of specie.

Penton first checked the bills and silver in the teller's drawer and tin box, then got the treasury notes and found them right.

"How much gold have you on hand?" he asked the teller.

Evan told him.

"I guess it's all right, but I'll count it, anyway."

He did, and found it correct.

"Bring me the silver, will you?" he said; "I might as well check everything while I am at it."

Evan brought several bags from the safe, and stood by while Penton opened them. When they came to the bag of quarters that had been left under the table for an hour the previous day, they made a discovery. At least Evan did. He found a package of one hundred dollars missing.

"What!" exclaimed Penton.

"Yes, there were five yesterday when I opened the bag, and I just took one out. There are only three here now."

The teller felt his head throb. Penton grinned sceptically.

"My dear man," he said, "you're mixed. The money was only left out for an hour, you say. No one was in here but myself."

Evan felt a chill. He was just as sure Penton had stolen one of those hundred dollar packages as he was that one had been stolen.

"Check your blotter," went on the manager, with a strange accent and a fearful glow in his colorless eye; "you couldn't possibly have paid out an extra hundred in silver. Good G——! man, you're crazy."

Mechanically the teller went over the additions in his blotter. That was always the first thing to do in a cash difference that looked like a mistake in addition. The blotter was found correct. Next came the vouchers. Penton worked assiduously on them with the teller. His mind somewhat clarified by checking, Evan began to think. Penton had said it was impossible to pay out one hundred dollars too much over the counter in silver—as it was. If he could trace the silver back to when the cash had been checked before, the difference could easily be located in the silver. He offered the suggestion. The manager made a gesture of impatience.

"I tell you," he said, "there must be a mistake somewhere; either in your work, or else you paid out one hundred dollars too much in bills and—you've been counting the silver wrong for days or weeks, that's it!"

Nelson knew he had not. Fortunately for him the manager had checked the cash a week before, and initialed it as correct. While Penton followed with his eyes, Evan ran over his cash-statement book, showing the decrease in silver each day to be about twenty-five dollars. Market days always took about one hundred and twenty-five dollars. But there was a falling off between Monday and Tuesday this week of two hundred and twenty-eight dollars.

Penton stared glassily a moment, as the boys had often seen him do. Then his cunning came to the rescue, as it always did.

"That bag you have been counting as five hundred dollars has only contained four packages. The loss is away back somewhere, and this is a coincidence. There has been a double error."

Evan knew differently, but felt that he could not say anything plausible. He was silent. Penton waited a moment before remarking:

"It'll come pretty hard on you, old man, with your salary."

So diabolically triumphant was Penton's tone that it filled Nelson with a horror.

"I'll quit the bank before I'll put it up," he said, gutturally.

"That would make things look suspicious," replied Penton.

So it would! Evan had not thought of that. Penton seemed to have figured the situation out fully; directly he said:

"Well, let's sit down and write head office the particulars. They may let you off, seeing you are getting only three hundred and fifty dollars."

Realizing his powerlessness, Evan obeyed. For the first time in his Banfield management Penton took command. He was self-possessed; acted like one who was right at home. Probably he was, in that kind of a game.

Nelson wrote unsteadily in longhand to his manager's dictation, and was strengthened in the conviction that Penton had stolen that parcel of silver. Usually the manager composed hesitatingly, especially when addressing head office, but now he was glib, and seemed familiar with his subject. He even appeared to be in suppressed good humor over the matter.

"Don't look so grim, old man," he said, oilily, "they'll not make you put it up. Why, that would be absurd, on your allowance."

An idea struck Evan. Penton, if he had taken the money, probably hoped his teller's low salary would influence head office toward leniency. The amount was not so very large; it was, indeed, just about the proper amount to take. One hundred dollars was such a common loss in banking, it would not look suspicious. Anything more would have aroused inquiry, while anything less would scarcely have been worth stealing. The thing had been well executed; taking one package from the bag and tying it up again, then innocently desiring to check the cash next day, all showed thought; and it occurred to Nelson that Penton's head was just the shape for such thought. He had not been dragging at his upper lip in vain: he had extracted a piece of strategy, which had originated in the cerebrum. There was a peculiar sympathy between Penton's lips and his brain, anyway: what the former craved satisfied the latter.

Women are accused of having a monopoly on intuition, but men have a corner on "hunches." From the moment his eyes rested on three parcels of silver where there had been four, Evan had a hunch that Penton was the thief. The trickery of it was so in accord with the expression of Penton's eye!

"But who has taken it?" said the manager, when the head office letter was finished.

"Either you or I," said Evan; "no one else has been here."

Penton grinned. It mattered not what he did, appearances would remain as they were—and that was not against the manager any more than against the teller.

"Go home and get a sleep, old man," said Penton; "we may be able to think the thing out to-morrow."

The tone of the manager's "old man" rang in Nelson's ears all evening. He rebelled against Penton's insinuating manner; like the touch of his hand it was coldly, clammily smooth.

In his room the teller sat worrying. Mrs. Terry called up to him that he had a visitor. Evan asked her to send him up. It was Henty.

"Here's a letter for you," said the junior; "I didn't see you at the post office and thought you would be glad to get this. The mail was just closing when I left."

"Thanks," said Evan. "Wait till I read it; I want to tell you something."

Henty chewed the end of a fat five-cent cigar while Evan read the letter, which was from his mother. It read:

"Dear Evan,—We always enjoy getting your letters. They don't tell us much about yourself, to be sure, except that you are well. That is the main thing. Be sure and keep on your heavy underwear until the end of April, and don't wash your hair too often. I do hope that boarding-house of yours is good to you. I'm making a fruit cake which we will express to you in a day or two. If you could take care of a barrel of apples we'd be glad to send one.

"Just think, you have been away from home over two years now. Dear me, it seems like ten. Lou is still the tantalizer she always was. Father keeps busy and well as usual. We all look forward to having you back at summer holidays. When do you expect to arrive? Be sure and let us know ahead. Frankie Arling was in the other day, and asked about you. Hoping to hear from you soon.

"MOTHER."

Nelson sighed and handed the letter over to Henty. A. P. blushed as he read it. His red corpuscles had a habit of rushing to the surface, like a shoal of small sea-fish, at the slightest disturbance of their element.

"I guess a fellow never forgets home," he said, thoughtfully.

"No, I guess not," replied Evan. "Every morning when I wake I feel as if I am somewhere on a visit."

"By gosh," said Henty, "so do I—except that Mrs. Wilson doesn't use me much like a welcome visitor. I always have to break the ice to get into my water pitcher."

Nelson did not smile. In fact, he had not heard: he was thinking of the disappointment coming to his mother if he should have to make good the one hundred dollars loss and miss his holidays.

"There's trouble down at the office, Henty," he said, slowly.

The genial junior raised his eyes in wonder.

"Drunk again?"

"No," said Evan, "worse than that. Someone has stolen a hundred dollars."

"The dickens!"

Nelson related him the story. A. P. drank it in with the expression of a child listening to Andersen's fairy tales. And he asked just as practical questions as a child asks.

"Do you suspect anybody?"

Evan smiled: he was growing tired of tragedy.

"I sort of suspect Filter," he answered.

Henty was serious.

"You don't like to say, do you?"

"No," said Evan.

The junior was silent a moment, after which he observed, bashfully:

"A certain party certainly needs the coin."

Evan sighed, and Henty looked at him quickly.

"You're lucky it wasn't a thousand, don't you think so?"

The teller had not thought of that. He was surprised both at the idea and the junior.

"You're right, Henty," he said, with interest, "I'm taking an awful chance. I believe in my heart Penton is a crook."

"Surest thing in the world!"

Evan thought a while.

"I'm going to write head office," he said finally, "and ask them for a move—but I can't peach on Penton's doings."

An answer to the manager's letter came from head office, but the teller did not receive a reply to his own. The one addressed to Penton said that manager and teller would have to put up $50 each, on account of the loss, to be paid in monthly instalments. It was a shrewd compromise, and characteristic of head office.

Penton swore volubly and pretended to be sorely aggravated.

"Well," he said, "you got off easy, anyway."

Filter was professionally indignant when he heard of the affair, but a man came in who couldn't write his name, and asked to open a savings account. He so interested Gordon that Gordon forgot all else and settled in between the covers of his ledger like a pressed moth. He came out of his shell (to change the simile) toward the close of the day's work and went into a minute examination of certain deposit slips that had gone through the day of the shortage, but his interest was purely clerical, and his sympathy amounted to: "Did you ever see such rotten writers as these Banfield storekeepers?"

Henty looked up from a sponge, which, he said, he was training to lick stamps and envelopes, but did not speak. Words would have added nothing to the humor of his expression.

For two weeks after the affair of the silver, Penton surpassed himself in signing his name. Also he took a social turn, and began once more to hypnotize the good people of Banfield. He had a faculty for ingratiating himself with people who were not great students of human nature. The town mayor was a particularly easy victim of his.

"Hello, Mr. Muir," Penton would say as the mayor entered the office, "I'm glad to see you looking so well. How's Mrs. Muir? I understand you are doing big things on the dam." (Here Henty would emphatically repeat the word from his desk in the rear of the office.) The mayor would grin and begin divulging municipal secrets. Penton always made a point of talking loudly with Muir and laughing yet more vociferously at his jokes.

There were women in Banfield, too, who were not impervious to Penton's flattery. He had a way of looking into their eyes and speaking softly that charmed them.

Nelson knew that Penton could have managed the branch well if he had gone to work; Penton was, evidently, familiar with the great circus man's aphorism about humbugging people, and could have given them all they wanted of it—to the bank's profit. It was, no doubt, owing to this hypocritical asset and the appreciation of it by head office officials, that Penton was managing a branch.

There is a certain stock-company actor in the States who periodically goes on a spree, comes back and weeps to his audience, and is forgiven. That is virtually what Penton was doing. He had hit upon the scheme as by inspiration, and it worked well. He asked a young dentist and wife down to his apartments behind the bank and fêted them on the best in town. Above all, he flattered them, and he made Mrs. Penton help him do it. She was, in fact, blind to the greater part of his badness, and was so anxious to help him into the favor of Banfield's best customers that she was willing to do a little wrong in his behalf. The surprise he perpetrated on her and the town, his new policy of ingratiation, gave her hope and made her rather proud of his versatility. She was very agreeable indeed to the dentist and his wife.

In a little town like Banfield good tidings spread just as rapidly as bad, among the better souls. News of the Pentons' hospitality and geniality went abroad until many of the ladies of Banfield desired to see more of Mrs. Penton, and, incidentally, her husband. Using the dentist's wife as a medium, they secured introductions to Mrs. Penton. Soon pink-teas began to be stylish.

It was about a fortnight after the affair of the silver. Mrs. Penton was giving a euchre party (whist was unknown in Banfield, and bridge was considered a sin) for the big dogs and ladies of Banfield. Her husband was the biggest dog of the bunch; he had gone so far as to deck himself in a dress-suit, and his stiff collar was almost the shape of a cuff.

The staff, of course, was invited, and had to go. Evan would gladly have stayed away, but he was afraid of hurting Mrs. Penton's feelings. She gave him a special invitation. He loathed the thought of drinking Penton's cocoa and eating his food. He well knew that the manager had counted on getting business—and forgiveness—for every mouthful of his miserable provender. Also, he was quite sure that the cocoa was either unpaid for or had been bought out of a mysterious silver package.

The teller played cards, for a while, at the same table as Penton, and saw him smirk down upon his guests as no one, surely, but W. W. Penton ever smirked. Evan felt that he would suffocate unless he got away from that table. He wished he could stand on a chair and reveal the character of the manager as he knew it—but a smile from Mrs. Penton reached him, and he filled with pity for her. He knew that a revelation of Penton's real character would sound as strange to her as to any person there. She knew her husband had "faults," but what does that common word signify to a woman in love? The atmosphere became too stifling for Evan. He felt his head throb and threaten to ache. He excused himself, to take air.

He went out through the office and threw open the front door of the bank. It was a clear April night; the air was cool and fresh.

There were only two living creatures visible on the front street. One was a dog, the other a man carrying a small valise and wearing a well-barbered beard. He was walking toward the bank.

The stranger ascended the steps where Evan stood and spoke in a tenor voice:

"Are you Mr. Nelson?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm Inspector Castle."