Evan suddenly remembered that he was a country accountant, and it was poor policy to abet a junior in heterodoxy.
"He must have done something wrong, didn't he?"
The junior, a sharp youngster, looked extremely indignant now.
"No chance," he said; "Willis is one of the decentest heads around this dump. He made no bulls: it was a pure question of policy. Ask anybody. The collection man over there" (pointing to a red-haired fellow of about thirty) "used to work with him. I brought Johns in the bills before three o'clock last fourth of the month and he opened his heart to me. Johns is my pal around here, although he never sees me outside the office."
"You seem to like him pretty well," said Evan, smiling.
"I do. I let the other kids have Castle's work; when that guy travels east I always go west."
Seeing how nihilistic and iconoclastic the young chap was, Evan deemed it unwise to longer remain in his society; he wandered across to the "C" desk. There, two men were ruling up large books in preparation for the morning's clearing. They were standing with their faces to the light and working with indelible pencils. That job always affected their eyes, Evan was told, after a few weeks or months.
The clearing came in. The paying teller shouted for the fourth teller. The latter was in the basement—but not for long. Two "C" men had him by the collar and were bringing him up the cellar steps in jumps.
"We're sick of late clearings," said Marks, the "husky guy with the small ankles," as he was called.
"Any more of this monkey-doodle business," rejoined Cantel, "and we'll distribute you around the coal basement."