The Banfield teller felt singularly alone in that basement, eating a cheese sandwich. The boys were so engrossed in their own affairs they had no time for welcoming new men. Aside from the two ledger-keepers and the two "C" men, the boys were almost strangers to each other. The Banfield man would have to learn, like the others, to affiliate with a book. He wondered, as he sat in the basement alone, how long it would take him. He speculated on the hit Filter would make in that soulless, endless city-office swirl.
The morning had been confusing to the new man, but the afternoon was chaotic. He stood beside Watson, trying to get the multitudinous cash-book entries through his head, until he was played out. He yawned repeatedly and his head pained ominously. Two and a half years of office work were telling on him, although he scarcely realized to what extent, and but for a very fortunate circumstance—which seemed to Evan an extremely unfortunate one—he would have experienced a nervous breakdown before long. But more about that circumstance later.
The bank door closed at three o'clock. Many people have an idea that work inside a bank ceases at that hour. That is one of the many delusions cherished respecting the business, one of the harmless delusions. After three o'clock, especially in a city office, the real strain begins. Tellers must balance their cash, and, on salaries varying from $600 to $1,200 (often less than the former, but not so often more than the latter) make good any loss sustained through the day. Every balance is a nervous shock and drains away its share of the clerk's vitality; if the chance of personal loss is hidden away in his balance, the strain is that much the worse.
In the din that followed closing, Evan thought his head would burst. The boys lighted their pipes and cigarettes, threw off their coats, and commenced the scramble. Curses and complaints came from every quarter. The place was a madhouse.
Even up in the accountant's department there was loud talking. Evan was up there looking for the draft register when he heard the accountant say:
"It's got to be stopped. If you think we're going to stand for this sort of thing you're badly mistaken."
The man to whom V. W. Charon was speaking trembled slightly, not from fear of the accountant but under the influence of alcohol. He lifted his weary, glassy eyes to reply, but his lips moved inaudibly and he stared at Evan.
"This has happened twice in the last month," continued Charon, sharply.
"Three times," corrected Castle.
The broad-shouldered figure paid no attention to anyone but Evan. He staggered past the accountants and held out his hand to the new man.