“Go on.”
“Well, sir, a bank clerk is trained to be suspicious. Every new customer who comes to the place is an object of suspicion to a man like me. He may want to cheat us. Every cheque that’s drawn is an object of suspicion because it may be a forgery, or the drawer may not have a balance to meet it. Then money—the number of bad coins I’ve detected, sir, would fill a big chest full of sham gold and silver, so that one grows to doubt and suspect every sovereign one handles. Then, sir, there’s men in general, and even your own people. It’s a bad life, sir, a bad life, a bank clerk’s, for you grow at last so that you even begin to doubt yourself.”
“Ah! but that is a morbid feeling, Thickens.”
“No, sir, it’s a true one. I’ve had such a fight as you couldn’t believe, doubting myself and whether I was right: but I think I am.”
“Well,” said the curate, smiling a faint, dejected smile; “but you are still keeping me in the dark.”
“It will be light directly,” said Thickens fiercely, “light that is blinding. I dread almost to speak and let you hear.”
“Go on, man; go on.”
“I will, sir. Well, for years past I’ve been in doubt about our bank.”
“Dixons’, that every one trusts?”
“Yes, sir, that’s it. Dixons’ has been trusted by everybody. Dixons’, after a hundred years’ trial, has grown to be looked upon as the truth in commerce. It has been like a sort of money mill set going a hundred years ago, and once set going it has gone on of itself, always grinding coin.”