Stimulated by the slang Evan made a great effort to qualify. Key noticed his earnestness, and softened.
"I beg pardon, old chap," he said, "you'll be all right in a few days."
Thereafter they were good friends. Whenever Evan wanted to know anything he went to the little grey-haired discount clerk and had it explained.
The day after his off-day Robb was on duty, working away silently and morosely. During the slight hill that marked the noon-hour he walked back to the cash-book desk to see Evan. His coming was welcome, for the third teller had just dumped twenty-odd sterling draft requisitions into the cash-book dish.
"Heavens!" said Robb, "they certainly load you down with work, Nelson. Have you eaten lunch yet?"
"No, I forgot to buy one when the kid was in." He didn't say he had also missed breakfast.
"Send out and get something," said Robb; "I'll make out these drafts for you. This isn't work for the cash book, anyway. I don't see why in —— they want to kill a man."
Robb's face was grey. He ground his teeth as he ripped the first draft from the pad. As he worked he talked to Evan, who was swallowing dry slices of bread with mustard and stray ligaments of gristle sandwiched between.
"Nelson," he said, "how would you like to come up and room with me?"
Evan's eyes opened with interest.