In the day when Evan Nelson was a savings ledgerman, bankclerks in Eastern towns were nicknamed "village idols." The title was quite appropriate, too. Even yet bankboys are looked for and looked after in those towns. It is quite natural that they should be, for they are a good class of fellows. The worst that can be said about them, as a rule, concerns their prospects; and it is to the credit of young women that they do not take a man's means into account when they want to fancy him.
After the picnic Bill and Evan were alone above the vault. The current-account man was moody.
"Kid," he said, impulsively, "it's —— to be poor, isn't it? Why don't you kick once in a while? The only decent kicker we have around this dump is Robb. He's all right."
Evan smiled pensively.
"—— it," continued Watson, "I don't see why a fellow can't earn enough to—to—"
"Get married on?" suggested Evan, who was, at the same moment thinking of an ideal composed of Frankie Arling and Julia Watersea.
"Sure! Why not?"
"Would you really like to get married, Bill?"
"Yes, I would."
"So would I."