"I really must be going," said Mrs. Arling, suddenly. "Let us know how he gets along. I'm sure the whole town misses Evan, and is proud of him."
Mrs. Nelson smiled fondly.
"And we, too, are proud of Our Banker."
It was the second day of "our banker's" apprenticeship. According to the chronology of homesickness he had been in the banking business about a year. He stood at a high desk in the back end of a dark office, gazing blankly on a heap of letters addressed, or to be addressed, everywhere. An open copying-book lay at his elbow, the pages of which were smeared with indelible streaks. Clerical experts had invented that book for the purpose of recording letters, but Nelson had applied too much water, and the result of his labors was chaos; worse—oblivion.
"Just gaze on that!" cried the teller-accountant, Alfred Castle.
While Alfred gazed a pencil artist might have made a good sketch of him—if the artist, of course, had been any good. The sketch, to be perfect, would need to portray a tall, slim, blonde person with feminine features. But no crayon could convey an idea of the squeaky voice and the supercilious manner.
"I can't understand how anyone could ball things up like that," he continued.
But assertions seemed incapable of rousing Evan from his stupid lethargy. A question might help.
"Why didn't you stop before you had spoiled the whole bunch?" asked the teller sharply.
Evan swallowed.