"No," replied Dunn, "but what about the girl?"
Nelson revolved the remark in his mind a while. He decided he would not be so friendly with Lily from that time on.
"It's funny," observed Dunn, again, "how village girls fall for a bankclerk—when we are made of the very stuff their own brothers are made of. Most of us came from a farm or a village. The bank has fitted us out with a shine and a shave, also has made us more useless year after year, and when we degenerate sufficiently the girls begin to adore us. I used to correspond with ten girls in different towns, regularly."
A strange feature of banking life, and which goes to emphasize the peculiar fascination of it, is that every man knows he is degenerating and understands why, but he seldom does anything about it. He sails carelessly along with Ulysses' crew, enjoying the voyage as much as possible, and worrying not about a landing.
"Still you wouldn't be anything but a banker, would you?" asked Nelson.
"I couldn't if I would," said Dunn, lazily; "I've been at it eight years. That's all I know."
"Well, supposing you were back on my salary, do you think you would stay in the bank?"
"I suppose so," answered the other; "I was on $250 once, and I didn't quit."
Dunn's indifferent contentment had considerable influence over Nelson. It caused the junior man to severely criticize his own restlessness. One of the acting-manager's slogans was about the rolling stone and the moss. The effect of that obsolete aphorism on moss-backs is pitiful. It impressed Evan, not because of his mossiness altogether, but because of his youth, and of youth's anxiety to make good. The lad of eighteen had an example of banking in his manager, Dunn, but his eyes were not yet opened. He could see the $75 a month very plainly, but he could not comprehend the eight long years of service that had made Dunn's salary what it was—and that had made him the laggard he was. Dunn had not entirely lost ambition, any more than a hundred Dunns in every bank to-day have lost it; but eight years' specialty service makes a young man useless for anything else but his specialty, and when he does muster enough strength to sit up in the bed he has made, he sinks back on the pillow again, exhausted, because of the weight on his chest.
But Dunn's predicament was, chiefly, Dunn's lookout—and, to some extent, the lookout of tradition-bound relatives. Had he been an exceptional man his attitude toward the business would have been different, and Evan, in the beginning of his awakening, would probably have benefited by contact with him. As it was, Evan scolded his complaining brain and forced it back into bed, as a mother does her baby; in fact, it is to be feared he gave it a dose of soothing-syrup, too.