A MAN OF THE WORLD.
Miraculous as it seemed to Evan, the ledgers were finally made to balance. Porter lengthened his stride a foot and walked once more well back on his heels—just as if his bad work had not been responsible for a three days' dizzy mixup. A certain Saturday afternoon came round.
"I guess we can do without you till Monday noon," said the manager, over Nelson's shoulder, as the latter pondered over an unwritten money-order.
It was welcome news to Evan. He had come to feel, however, that his presence was indispensable to the well-being of the collection register and other books of record. It appeared to him that in one afternoon and a forenoon the hand of any other but himself must irrevocably "ball" the junior post.
"You mean you don't want me to drive back Sunday night?" he asked Mr. Robb, doubtingly.
"That's what. You'd better take all the holidays you can get now, Nelson; you'll be tied tighter than wax-end before you're in the business long."
Evan seemed still perplexed.
"Who'll take out the drafts Monday morning, Mr. Robb?" he asked, seriously.
The manager looked at him with an expression half humor and half pity.
"Do you suppose," he said with a grin, "that the merchants will be very badly offended at not getting these bills at the earliest moment?"