The paying-teller laughed, so did Willis and the cash-book man. There are moments of fun in a city bank, but they are brief and reactive. The boys never get acquainted to any extent. They rarely help each other out, either, for they all have their hands full, and every bit of extra work they do reacts on their own post at night, early mornings, or Sundays. Sometimes there is a utility man, but he either dies young or prays for a move to the Maritime Provinces, where he can recuperate in a summer resort.
"That's enough from you, Johnson," said Marks; "crawl into that pipe of a savings and close the cover, or we'll make you smell the leather down cellar."
"You call the savings a 'pipe,' do you? Say, Marks, you'd have seven kinds of delirium tremens if you smoked this pipe."
Cantel tore off a slip and looked up.
"Ninety cents out," he said. "Marks is familiar with seventy times seven snakes already, Johnsy. He's getting to the crocodile stage. Last night at the Gai—"
"Shut up, Cant," whispered Marks, frowning; "it isn't time for the great trump to sound, just yet."
"Who mentioned trumps?" inquired Jack Brower, one of the current ledgermen, who had come around to drum up "stuff."
The boys laughed in chorus.
"Hey, less noise out there," called Levison, already experiencing a "kick" from the laugh of a minute before.
Marks was about to waken Brower to a proper understanding when Charon popped around the paying-cage.