Thus it went, town after town. The bankman drifted along, taking no girl seriously, but using them all so, out of necessity. If he was an unscrupulous person he enjoyed it; if he knew what conscience meant he periodically took himself to task—but never quite solved the problem. There was no solution to it. One could not be a hermit or a boor because girls had hearts and the bank had none. He must play the game. He was taking a big chance of having his own heart cracked, and thought of danger for himself fostered recklessness toward the weaker sex.
Something, a solemn voice it seemed, whispered to Evan that a young man of iron could go through the ordeal of eight or ten years' bank service and run the gauntlet of attractive femininity without injury to a single soul; but young men are not made of iron. Evan wondered if those who wrote the Rules and Regulations had daughters, or if they remembered the letters they had received when they were clerking in little towns. Why didn't they take the whole of human nature into consideration when they laid down laws to govern employes? The fact that they had ignored the right of young men to marry at a reasonable age had wrought a thousand published wrongs and ten thousand wrongs that would never reach the press.
In his silent room the young teller rebelled against the bonds that held him and his fellows. He counted the years that must elapse before he could hope to marry. At one hundred dollars increase per year it would take him seven years more to earn $1,050. In the East the "marriage minimum" was $1,000, in the West $1,200. Like Jacob he must work seven years for his wife. And then would it be Rachel or someone else? Would Frankie wait such an age for him? Could any man expect a girl to believe in the seriousness of his intentions for eighty-four months—a year of weeks? He believed she would wait if she understood, but how could a girl understand "business" like that?
The teller's mind grew darker as he mused. He saw only gloom ahead. The drunken manager staggered into his room, in spirit, and delivered another lecture on the "aristocracy of banking." Bah!
Evan filled with rebellion as his situation stood out before him—a sudden pain in the head warned him that he was worrying. Then came a slight reaction.
"Pshaw!" he muttered, "I'm putting myself in a rotten humor. I'll feel better in the morning."
And so he did. The "light of common day" is often preferable to the illusions of night. In spite of his disturbed state of mind Evan had slept well. Penton, too, had slept, but not well. Judging from his appearance in the morning, his dreams must have been diabolical.
When the teller entered the office Penton greeted him sullenly.
"Well," he said, grouchily, "I suppose I made a nice mess of things last night. I suppose every —— gossip in town will talk about it for months."
In spite of his grouch the manager looked frightened. Anyone could see he was worried.