"Well, I do rather, if you can manage it." He glanced over the scrolls. "I see you have been giving Weary Willy a hand."
Barton smiled. "You would be here till six if I didn't. It is quite time the poor old chap got his pension."
"They ought to make you cashier," said the other. "Furze wants to go at the end of the year, if they will let him. Why don't you apply for it?"
Barton glanced round to see if they were overheard, and, speaking in a lower voice, answered, "That is just what I did last week. The manager—he is a little brick, Blackmore—sent up a very strong letter urging my fitness, and all that sort of thing; but the directors wrote back and said I was too young. Rather sickening, wasn't it?"
"Why don't you go in for something else?" asked his companion. "With your brains you are wasted in a bank. Any fool can do this sort of thing."
Barton flushed slightly. He was twenty-one, and the compliment was obviously genuine. "It is all very well, Steele," he said; "but what can I do? I haven't got a halfpenny in the world, and I have had to keep myself ever since I entered this confounded hole. I shan't stay in it a minute longer than I can help, but at present—" he shrugged his shoulders.
"It is a bit off, isn't it?" agreed Steele sympathetically. "I should leave myself, if I could do anything else. By the way, do you want a tip for the Manchester Cup?"
"Well, that's curious!" said Barton. "You are the second to-day."
"Second what?"
"Why, I have just had a letter from a man offering to give me a tip. What's yours?"