"Yes—liability ledger. I had it on my mind to-day to tell you, but you were not around when I remembered what it was that bothered me. Sam's been here several months. They took his job away from him because of letters Alfy wrote."
Nelson could hardly believe it.
"The calf," he muttered. "What does Robb think about it?"
"Oh, he doesn't say much. He works like a nigger, all but about two days a month—when he goes on a tear. Been hitting the can a lot lately."
"I don't wonder," said Evan; "what has he to live for?"
He had something, though, as every man has—his self-respect. But one sometimes loses that when others do not attribute it to him.
Evan had never felt more incompetent than when Watson asked him to take out a balance. He could just as easily have "taken out" a degree at the Toronto University. While he fretted his still pounding head, Bill rode the round-up of registers, supplementaries and totals. Long drawn out exclamations reverberated in whatever corner of the office he happened to be searching.
"Teller's book," he shouted behind the paying teller; "come on, Sid."
The poor teller was short in his cash. Bundles were piled almost to the top of the cage; he snatched them up one by one and ran through them. He had a sore hand, too; it had been poisoned by infectious money. Two weeks later, when the teller had returned from sick-leave, head office refused to pay his doctor's bill, insinuating that the poison might be something else!
"Get out of here, you wolf," yelled the teller; "you're more —— bother than ——"