Several clerks were working at "night jobs." They looked sideways at Robb and Nelson working with their heads together over at the cash-book desk.
"Sam's taken a notion to Banfield, I guess," said Marks, who was still out in the morning's clearing.
"You boneheaded mutt!" cried Cantel, glaring at his desk-mate.
"What's the matter with you—did you ever see an ex-manager come back to help the cash-book before? Next time we have to tick off we'll press him into our service."
"Get wise," returned Cantel, "or I'll press your mitts into service. Do you see that?"
He held up a cheque, which at first glance looked like $3.74. Its resemblance to that amount had caused all the trouble: the cheque was for $37.40.
"Every cent of our difference!" exclaimed Marks. "By heck, let's all go out and celebrate."
Accepting his suggestion as an invitation, the other "C" man, a junior, and a "supplementary" man banged their books shut and accompanied Marks to the nearest hotel. "Celebrating" is a favorite pastime of bankboys. Every balance found, every inspection finished, almost anything accomplished, requires a celebration. It is easy to get in the swim, and then one makes a fish of himself.
Sam Robb, the ex-manager, was almost as much at sea over the cash-book as Nelson was; but he had been a clerk longer than the young man, and he plodded ahead methodically, without that nervous anxiety that gets young clerks "up in the air." Robb's frequent remarks rendered the strain less intense to Evan; he worked with greater freedom and assurance than he would have done alone. Between them they struck a balance within a reasonable time, and locking up the vault went out to the street.
The lights of Yonge Street, the city environment, the pleasant April air, all revived Evan's spirits. For a while he forgot that he was a bankclerk living in danger of concussion of the brain.