A shudder passed over Evan as he took his stand in front of the crowd. He felt something of what a martyr must feel who faces trial at the hands of a mob. It was market-day. The Banfield bank had made a practice of cashing the tickets of hucksters who came from Toronto and bought up the people's produce on a margin. These tickets had to be figured up by the teller, cashed and afterwards balanced. Many of the customers made small deposits, after blocking the way to leaf over their money with badly soiled fingers (surely they needn't have been quite so dirty!); bought money-orders, opened new accounts "in trust" for relatives, asked questions—did everything thinkable to harass the teller.
Besides the produce tickets there was the ordinary banking business of the day. Occasionally a regular customer came in to cash a cheque, and finding himself unable to get near the wicket went out in considerable of a rage, trying to slam the automatically-closing door. Evan was supposed to keep his eye open for these "regulars," but to-day his head swam and he was obliged to concentrate on the tickets to avoid mistakes. An error on his part might easily involve him in personal loss; but if he "made" anything on the cash, that went to Cash Over Account.
A loud voice was heard in the manager's office.
"I won't stand for it," said the voice. "If you can't wait on me ahead of these old women you can do without my business."
"Give me your cheque, Mr. Moore, I'll have it cashed for you," said Mr. Jones, conciliatingly.
"No, sir, if I can't——"
The manager, more than half ill, lost his temper.
"Go then and be ——!" he shouted, and left his office to the burly intruder.
Moore shouted after the manager, making sure every gossip in the office would hear:
"I'll report you! I'll report you—you're no kind of a manager, and I'll have you kicked out of here."