Evan liked the big rough-and-ready junior. He looked like a farm-hand, and acted like a young steer; but he was amiable, and had brains, too. Above all, he was wholesome.
"I'll be with you in a minute, A. P.," said the teller.
They walked along the lakeside. Spring had really come. Crows were flying around aimlessly, early robins piped from a willow where the "pussy-tails" were budding, and a blackbird with glossy neck chirruped unmusically on a stump.
"Don't you ever get the fever to go back on the farm, A. P.?" said Evan.
"This time of year I do. Dad would like me to do the prodigal. Sometimes I feel like going, too."
"Why don't you go?"
Henty licked his lips—a childish habit of his—and asked innocently:
"Straight, Evan, do you think I'll ever make a banker?"
"I don't know; they say a poor clerk often makes a good manager."
"At that rate," laughed Henty, "I ought to make a peach. Filter says I'm on a par with those market-women when it comes to clerking."