Читать книгу A Canadian Bankclerk - J. P. Buschlen - Страница 12

A sickening sensation took possession of Evan as he boarded the train Monday forenoon for Mt. Alban. He found it hard to banish from his thoughts the invitation his father had given him, to return to school and the pleasant experiences that made up a school education.

The two young girls waved him good-bye from the platform of Hometon station, and it afterwards became known that a tear had stood for a second in the bankclerk's eye.

"You needn't have come till night," said the manager, as Evan walked solemnly into the office.

The words made Evan more homesick than ever. One characteristic of the disease known as homesickness is a strong tendency toward a relapse. One may imagine himself cured, he goes out of his environment,—and comes back with a new attack.

Because of the pain occasioned by visiting home Evan decided he would stay away several months before making another excursion among home-folk. In this resolve he was unintentionally selfish; his mother and his other friends loved to see his face, if it were but for an hour. But young men are always inconsiderate of their loved ones' affections. They probably fear that in humoring their parents and kin they will humor themselves to the point of losing their grit. What Evan considered self-preservation was, from the standpoint of the folk at home, something resembling neglect or indifference. When his mother received a note from him saying he would not be home till fall, she had a "good" cry. Mr. Nelson smiled, while the women-folk were looking, and sighed later.

"Let him go it," he said, cheerily; "it takes these things to make a man, you know."

Mrs. Nelson was more resigned after that; she was most anxious to see her son "a man."

Frankie was also notified of the rigid resolve. She felt chilly while reading the letter, and postponed an answer for two weeks. The letter she wrote was as follows:

"Dear Evan,—I don't see why you should make yourself any further away than you really are. It may not be very much pleasure for you to come back to this little burg, but it is nice for us.

"I wrote off my Latin and German papers to-day; to-morrow it's French and Literature. Do you remember how you used to help me guess the passages for memorization? You surely were a lucky guesser.

"If you are dead certain you don't want to come home for all those months, you will at least write occasionally and tell us how you are getting along. Mother is calling me now, and I must close. I hope you won't be offended at this letter.

"Sincerely,

"FRANK."

When Evan received the note from "his" girl he was much excited. Perry had been moved, a new junior had come, and the old junior was promoted to savings bank. Not only was he excited, he was confused. Besides having to actually wait on customers he was obliged to break in the new "swipe"; and the latter, sad to tell, was about Porter's speed.

The reply Evan sent Frankie was busy. It was rushed off to convey the good news of promotion, and must necessarily have a business ring. In spite of its brevity, however, it contained two or three new bank idioms.

Real work began for Nelson. Not to say that a juniorship is a sinecure: some swipes earn their salaries several times over. One was once known to write the inspector as follows:

"Dear Sir,—I could make more money sawing wood than I can banking."

The following reply came back, through the manager, of course:

"Tell M—— he could earn more money at the job he mentions, but that it would not take him so long to learn wood-sawing as it will to learn banking."

The inspector might have gone one step further and got to the truth of the matter. One requires no education to saw wood, and no intellect; but both education and a certain degree of intelligence must appertain to him who would make successful application to a bank; and education itself requires an expenditure of time and money. The ability a young man possesses has cost him something and has cost his father or widowed mother a great deal. What right has the bank to use it without paying what it is worth? It ought to be worth a bare living, at least—like wood-sawing.

Time flew, for Evan, on his new post. There is certain excitement about bank work, just as there is in playing checkers. It is said of both occupations that they develop the faculties. Counting the stars also strengthens certain brain-tissues. In fact, there are many educational agencies in the world and the universe: it is no trouble to find one or a thousand—the difficulty comes in selecting. He who can choose, with open eyes, the factors that shall enter into his education, is going to be among the fittest. But few boys of seventeen know where to look; certainly Evan Nelson did not. He was naturally a specialist; that is, he was one to put his whole heart into anything. If he had been left to the moulding influence of a university he would have fastened upon literature or science and created something for the world; but, unfortunately, he was thrown headlong into a counting-house, and, being an enthusiast, began to dig among musty books with an energy that was, in great measure, wasted—except, to the beneficiaries of the concern.

The life he had led at home had given Evan scope for his imagination. The life he now led made no demand on his creative powers, with the result that his imagination turned away from great things and concentrated on little things—like pleasure.

It was the old story, the story that Sam Robb and others knew. With Nelson it began later than usual, but came with a rush in the following way:

One night in his room above the vault he sat reading in French a story from De Maupassant, a dictionary beside him. Bill Watson walked into the room and sat down with a grunt, and a cigarette. He lounged back in a chair, well-dressed and glossy-looking, and puffed white rings upward toward the ceiling.

"Why don't you go out a little, Evan?" he said, casually.

The ledger keepers had become pretty well acquainted by now. Evan's sincerity and energy were telling on the books, too. Even Castle had spoken nicely to him one day.

"Out where?" asked Evan, looking away from the French fiction.

"To parties. Where did you think I meant—out in the back yard?"

"I don't know many people yet," replied the savings man.

"You never will, either, unless you make a break. Say, kid, there's a party on to-night. I can get you a pass. Will you come?"

"It's too late," parried Evan.

Bill regarded him with a look of pity.

"Don't ever make a break like that to a girl in this town," he said, smiling, "or she'll take you for a greeny. People don't go to dances at eight o'clock, you know—not in Mt. Alban."

Nelson felt embarrassed. Watson was talking on:

"It helps business, you know. Customers like to know the fellows who are looking after their money. They like to think you take an interest in them."

Evan closed his book quickly.

"I'm not afraid to go to the hanged party," he said suddenly.

"That's talking, Nelsy. Get busy, then. You've got nothing to shave, so it shouldn't take you long to get ready."

Before long the new savings man presented himself dressed for the dance. Bill regarded him with concealed amusement.

"Say, Evan," he said softly, "could you lend us a dollar? I think there's something in my account, but I forgot to draw it this afternoon."

Evan knew there was nothing in Bill's account, but he could not refuse the trifling loan. He wondered how Watson could spend eight dollars a week, when his board only cost him three dollars and a half.

In return for the loan Bill did his best to make Evan feel comfortable at the dance. Now the savings man knew nothing about dancing, and he was equally ignorant of cards. He found girls at the party anxious to teach him the former, and married ladies ready to give him "a hand." With thought of Watson's recently delivered words fresh in his mind, he began to learn new ways of making himself valuable to the bank. He would ingratiate himself with the customers.

Two members of the party were particularly agreeable "customers." Evan discovered that there were some very interesting girls in Mt. Alban. One of the two belles paid Watson great attention and the other seemed partial to Evan himself; both treated him exceedingly well.

"She's a bird, isn't she, Nelson?" observed Watson, when the two bankclerks were alone for a moment.

"You bet. That dark hair of hers is mighty becoming."

Watson laughed.

"I mean the other, you jackass. Mine."

"Oh," said Nelson, absently.

The following day Julia Watersea came into the bank and deposited some money with the teller. Evan felt his face fill up when he saw the red passbook—it meant she would have to face him before the transaction was finished.

"How are you to-day?" he asked, working hard on the book and trying to look professional.

"Very well, thank you, Mr. Nelson. By the way, do you like picnics?"

Bill kicked him from behind.

"Yes—yes, indeed," said Evan, quickly.

"Well, we girls are getting one up for Saturday afternoon. Could you and Mr. Watson come?"

Bill rushed up to the savings wicket.

"Could we?" he cried, smiling at the dark-haired girl. "Can we?"

"All right," said Julia, with color; "we're going to meet at our place."

De Maupassant and the dictionary were doomed. Bill warmed up to the junior ledgerman now that the latter was growing sociable. He periodically forgot to put a cheque through during bank hours, preferring to do his business through Evan.

Miss Watersea's picnic happened, and it was a good one. Evan enjoyed himself so well he forgot to write Frankie her weekly letter. He would have had to mention Julia in it, anyway, and perhaps it was as well to omit writing altogether.

The girl Bill called his was something like Lou Nelson. Evan felt at home in her company, but she did not attract him in the same way Julia did. Hazel Morton had more fire in her than either Lou or Julia—that, Evan said to himself, was how it was she held Bill Watson. Bill was not at all easy to hold.

In the day when Evan Nelson was a savings ledgerman, bankclerks in Eastern towns were nicknamed "village idols." The title was quite appropriate, too. Even yet bankboys are looked for and looked after in those towns. It is quite natural that they should be, for they are a good class of fellows. The worst that can be said about them, as a rule, concerns their prospects; and it is to the credit of young women that they do not take a man's means into account when they want to fancy him.

After the picnic Bill and Evan were alone above the vault. The current-account man was moody.

"Kid," he said, impulsively, "it's —— to be poor, isn't it? Why don't you kick once in a while? The only decent kicker we have around this dump is Robb. He's all right."

Evan smiled pensively.

"—— it," continued Watson, "I don't see why a fellow can't earn enough to—to—"

"Get married on?" suggested Evan, who was, at the same moment thinking of an ideal composed of Frankie Arling and Julia Watersea.

"Sure! Why not?"

"Would you really like to get married, Bill?"

"Yes, I would."

"So would I."

Watson was forced to laugh. He was twenty—that was bad enough. But Nelson was not yet eighteen. Bill continued to gaze at the serious face of his companion until his own countenance changed. Instead of speaking or sighing he lighted a cigarette.

"Will you have one, Nelsy?"

Evan shook his head.

"Do you think Julia would object?"

"What's she got to do with me?" challenged Nelson.

"Why, she's your girl, man. Sailors have sweethearts in every port, you know, and bankers in every town."

Evan tried to connect sailors and sweethearts with cigarettes, but just at that time was unable to establish anything but a far-fetched relationship. Later in life, on the Bowery, he thought he saw the connection.

In the midst of parties and picnics balance day loomed up. Castle's frame of mind, like a special make of barometer, registered the event a day or so in advance.

"Have you got your ledger proved up?" he asked Evan.

"Pretty well, I think."

Under Bill's tutelage, Evan had dropped the "sir" when speaking to Castle.

"Remember, the interest has to be computed this month. Watson, it will be up to you to check it."

"I'm not the accountant," said Bill, chewing gum with a smacking noise. "I'll help him make it up, though."

Mr. Robb came to the cage door for some change, and the teller referred the matter to him.

"Oh, do your best with it, boys," he said. "I'm strong for co-operation. There isn't enough of it among the staff."

Castle turned away with a sneer.

"I've got the liability," he said, sulkingly.

"I'll take charge of that this time," returned Robb; "give the boys a hand at the savings, Alf. And say, Watson, get the cash book written up early so that I can post the general, will you?"

"All right, sir," said Bill, cheerily.

Evan experienced a thrill as these orders were passed around. He felt that he was part of a great system. The names of ledgers and balance-books sounded pleasant to him, for he was daily learning considerable about them. Their puzzles were solving and their mysteries dissolving before his constant gaze. He felt like an engineer lately on the job, or a new chauffeur, only more mighty.

His sense of greatness waned, though, toward midnight on balance day. The savings ledger was out an ugly amount. Bill was also in straits.

"It's a wonder to me," he growled, as the two plodded along alone in the semi-darkness, "that bankclerks don't go nutty."

Evan was scaling a column and did not answer. Watson continued, keeping time with the adding machine.

"Work, work, work; doggone them, it's a wonder they wouldn't ask for a few more particulars on this ledger-sheet. Why, in heaven's name, do they want the names of customers down at head office? They don't know these ginks here, and never will. If they don't believe our totals, why don't they come and look over the books? Oh, ——!"

"Hurrah!" shouted Nelson, cavorting around his desk.

Bill knew the savings man must have struck a balance, but he was too sorely irritated to show enthusiasm.

"Why don't you pat me on the back, Bill?"

"Shut up. Anybody could balance that passbook of a ledger."

Evan cooled down and remained quiet a while. Bill, thinking he had offended his companion, soon looked across with an apologetic smile. Nelson was staring wildly at his totals.

"What's the matter?" asked Watson, well acquainted with vacant looks in bankclerk faces on balance night.

"I—I thought I was balanced. It seems to be one cent out."

The reaction struck Bill as funny, because it duplicated experiences he had had and seen, but he made an effort to suppress his mirth. He laughed silently upon his own unbalanced return-sheet until his nervous system was satisfied, then he spoke.

"Evan."

"What do you want?" sourly.

"Did you ever hear the story about the maid who counted her chickens before they were?"

Evan scowled and raced up and down his columns in search of the stray cent. He did not find it. Bill took pity, seeing that he would not have to go past the units column, and proved Evan's totals. But the cent still hid.

"I'll bet it's in the calling," he said, grinning. "Do you know what that means?"

"No."

"It means you will have to tick off a whole month's work. And remember, we've got the interest to make up, too. No parties this week, kiddo. No more Julias for yours. She'll have another fancier by the time you're unearthed from this junk-heap."

Nelson wondered how Watson could make light of so gloomy a matter. He took his own work very seriously, as most bankboys have to. Bill often worried, but not about his work. When he changed pillows it was a question of finance.

"Cheer up, Nelsy," he said, carelessly, "things always turn up. Remember the old motto: 'It took Noah six hundred years to learn how to build an ark; don't lose your grit.' I'll fish you out if you get too far under water."

Evan was not fond of the idea of being fished out. He wanted to swim unaided.

But he failed. All next day he worried over his "difference," giving a start whenever one cent detached itself from an amount. In the evening Bill called off the ledger to him. When they were nearing the end he called an amount one cent wrong.

"What's that, what's that?" Evan repeated, excitedly.

Bill called it again, but rightly. He chuckled quietly for a little space, greatly to Nelson's aggravation.

It was midnight the first of the month. The savings man struggled alone with his balance; the desks swam around the office and figures danced like devils before him.

"D—!" he muttered.

That was one of his first legitimate swear-words at Mt. Alban—but others would come. The recording angel up above might as well open an account first as last, for one more human being had entered a bank.

The front door jarred and some of the bankboys entered. Bill was not quite sober, and one of his companions had, what he himself insisted was, "about half a bun."

"Don't work all night, Nelsy," said Watson, "th-there's another d-day coming."

"Sure, lots 'em," said the half-intoxicated one.

A teller from one of the other Mt. Alban banks extended a box of cigarettes toward Nelson.

"No thanks!"

"By heck, it helps a fellow a whole lot when he's tired," said the teller; "come on—just one."

Even felt fagged from hours of bootless labor. He hesitated, almost stupidly, and the bankclerk pushed the box rapidly into his hand. He figured it would be childish to refuse after that—and accepted his first cigarette.

It did help him, for the moment. After a few puffs he began to be amused at Bill's words and actions.

"Close up shop," said Bill, recklessly; "to —— with honest endeavor."

"How much are you out?" asked the alien teller.

"One dirty little copper," said Bill, answering for his desk-mate.

"Let's have a look," said the teller. "This is against the rules, I know—"

"Aw, bury the rules," cried Watson.

While the teller looked Evan's difference loomed up as big as a mountain. The tired savings clerk had stumbled over it many times.

"By Jove!" he shouted, "give us another cigarette!"

A moment later he was sorry he had asked for it, but he was obliged to smoke it. It brought him such pleasant sensations he decided it would be a good medicine to take in crises of hard work.

Immediately after Nelson's difference was found, the boys planned a dance. They had been treated well by the girls of Mt. Alban, and it was up to them to reciprocate.

"Don't you think so?" asked the semi-drunk.

"Sure," said Evan, choking on an inhale.

"Who'll start the fund?" asked Bill.

"I will," responded Nelson, producing a five-dollar bill—all he had.

"That's the kind of a sport," said the foreign teller. "Gee! I haven't seen a real five outside my cage for a month."

"I wish I was on the cash like you, Jack," grinned Watson.

"What would you do?"

"Why, borrow a little occasionally. You didn't get me wrong, I hope?"

"No chance, Bill; we know you're honest."

The dance given by the bankboys of Mt. Alban was a success—in all but a financial way. The thing did not pay for itself, and there was an extra draft on each banker for two dollars. Even wrote home for a loan of five dollars. He also hinted that he needed a new suit, that he felt shabby at parties beside the private banker's son and the haberdasher's nephew. A cheque came signed "George Nelson"; it was twenty-five dollars high. Evan sighed. Then he slowly folded the cheque into his wallet.

He ordered a suit from one of the town tailors and paid ten dollars down.

Bill Watson usually wrote the cash book and the cash items. He saw the cheque from Hometon and made mental note of it. A day or two later he asked Evan for a loan to pay the bank guarantee premium, and got five dollars.

When his suit was finished Nelson was a few dollars short. He went on the tailor's books. The same night Julia Watersea called him up and asked him down. He felt obliged to take some candy along.

"How much should I spend for a box of chocolates, Bill?" he asked.

"Nothing less than a buck, kid," replied Bill, almost rendering his speech ambiguous.

Evan's salary was still two hundred a year—dollars, not pounds. The box of candy he bought consumed almost two days' earnings.