Robb's lip curled, and he made a blot over an "i" instead of a dot; but he offered no comment.
"Come up for supper to-night," he invited, "and I'll show you the room. You might as well move right in, and make a couple of days' hotel expenses out of the bank."
Hurrying through the ordeal called "lunch," in order to let Robb back to his liability, Evan took the Sterling book and figured out exchange.
"Where did you learn that?" asked Robb, watching him do the first draft.
"Watson showed me last night," replied Evan; "we never issued them in the country."
"And they're giving you seven dollars a week. Do you know what this post is worth, Evan? Fifteen hundred dollars a year!"
The figure dazed Evan. He could not conceive of his being worth such a fabulous amount to any corporation.
"It's just as difficult as my job," continued Robb. "There's no difference between one post and another—except in the amount of work done, of energy wasted. It's all a matter of getting into a rut and plugging along there, like a plowman. A fellow needs certain qualifications like accuracy, speed, and a rhinoceros' constitution; but what is there to it, from the standpoint of prospects? Nothing—except work. I began in this very office twenty-five years ago. In two years I was almost as capable of handling the liability as I am now. All I needed was a little practice. I'm just where I started. I've been going round in a circle. That's banking! Do you think for a holy minute that if I was young again I'd give myself another twenty-five-year sentence? Great Heaven! what wouldn't I give to be back at your age? You may flatter yourself with the notion that you're going to have something nice handed to you some day. Well, you'll get it handed to you, all right, but not in a silver salver. You'll get it where the chicken got the a-x-e; you'll get it with the bank guillotine. You're now doing thirty dollars worth of work each week at a salary of seven dollars. What guarantee have you that the bank will ever change its policy toward you? If they tie a can on you to-day, it will be a tin pail to-morrow and a milk-can the next day. Haven't they done it to me, to Willis, to Key, to Levison and a hundred others? My boy, they don't give a fig for you."
So saying, Sam Robb humped his big shoulders and slouched up to his desk, there to bury his head in a gigantic ledger for the balance of the day.
Evan was troubled. He still believed that Robb was exaggerating; had not the ex-manager brought upon himself most of his failure? Evan had heard that pet charge made against disgruntled clerks, and it came to his mind automatically. Still, he had evidence of Robb's faithfulness both at Mt. Alban and here in the city branch, and—he was troubled.