Toward nine o'clock the boys began coming into the office in instalments. As they passed Nelson, who was leaning against a desk, some of them nodded, recognizing a comrade, but most of them passed by with merely a glance. Men were coming and going every week.
Evan had speculated on the sensation he would make as he—a real, live pro-accountant—walked into the city office. Where was the sensation now? Within himself. He experienced an involuntary chill; the machinery of which he constituted a cog was beginning to grind. He should not have been so susceptible to those petty influences that impregnate a new environment; but he was below normal health by reason of work and worry endured at Banfield, and inclined to look on the dark side. Instead of going to work in a city bank he should have taken a trip to the country and engaged with a farmer to plant onions or shingle a barn.
At the front of the office there were two desks. Evan asked one of the juniors, of which there were three, who occupied these desks.
"The accountant and assistant-accountant," was the answer.
Branch men were familiar with the signature of the Toronto accountant, for he always signed the letters; but not with his assistant.
"What's the assistant-accountant's name?" asked Evan.
"Castle," said one of the boys; "Mr. Alfred Castle."
Toronto was destined to be a nest of surprises for the Banfield clerk; he might as well begin getting used to them.
"Do I report to the manager?" he asked Watson.
"No," said Bill, "the manager won't know you till you're here a month or so. You report to Alfy."