The junior at Banfield branch had a large finger, just the sort for holding down a thong, although it guided a pen badly. He was a big, red-faced, shaggy-haired fellow, born to the physical strain of a practical agriculturalist.
"Henty," said the teller, as he waxed the money parcel, "how did you ever get into the bank?"
"Why?" grinned the junior.
"Oh, I don't know. You're too strong or too something for this business. If I had your frame I'd go into the ring."
"This is ring enough for me," said Henty. "I can have a round here any time—with the cash book and savings."
The ledger keeper spoke up. (Henty's initials were A. P.)
"Say, Ape—I'll bet you lose more good sweat making out a settlement draft than you would covering a pig-pen with old tin."
"Aw, forget it," said A. P., smiling good-naturedly; "the bank has worse dubs than me. I mean than I. Take yourself for example——"
"Impossible," replied Filter, the ledger keeper.
Gordon Filter was tall, lean and pale. He was a sedentary person and loved meddling with figures. He swore continually about his salary and blasphemed against the bank, but his work was always perfect and he was always watching over it with pride. Filter was what was known as a "fusser." He worked slowly, mechanically, and without originality, but he made few mistakes. He was a good clerk—that was about the best he would ever be.