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."