Читать книгу A Canadian Bankclerk - J. P. Buschlen - Страница 8

When Nelson was able to take out the collections Porter found himself in line for the savings ledger. It never occurred to the Bonehead that elevation was apt to bring added responsibilities; he thought only of the promotion. Nothing now mattered except the fact that J. Porter Perry was a ledger keeper. He managed to drop the information in every store on his last trip round with the bills, and proclaimed his successor in a tone that was very irritating to the new "swipe."

Evan ground his teeth—but thought of Frankie. He spoke respectfully to all the bank's customers, and tried to act like a gentleman, on the street. In a week's time he knew every merchant in town well enough to speak to him, and had overcome the giggles and whisperings of counter girls.

Mornings were always bright enough to him. When he first wakened a kind of pall usually settled about his lonesome crib, but the May sunlight soon helped him forget that he was "out in the world alone." He knew that his father would gladly send him money and stand by him no matter what happened. This was great consolation, although Evan did not admit to himself that it was. He wanted to be an independent man, as his forefathers had been; he was unwilling to have his father support him any longer by store-labor. When he reflected that soon he would be able to keep himself and make little gifts to his mother and sister he took courage and forged through whatever difficulty happened to be in the way.

Evan had seen college boys fritter away their time, miss examinations repeatedly and get into trouble that cost their fathers dearly. He determined that he would keep clear of youthful mixups and try to save his money, to show his parents that he appreciated what they had done for him, and to repay them, as well as he could, for what they had given him. Sometimes he thought he had made a mistake in going into a bank, but he felt, at that, that it was a brave and unselfish thing to do, and he thought he saw wherein banking had many advantages over school life. He could get an education behind the wicket and the iron railing that would make him self-reliant. This idea fixed itself firmly in his mind.

Homesickness still bothered him, of course. It made itself most strongly felt after meals, like a species of gout. A youth, especially a bankclerk, usually enjoys a good appetite; there is considerable excitement about satisfying it. But when bodily hunger is appeased the mind has leisure to satisfy itself or to feel dissatisfied. Evan could not throw off the gloom that settled on him in the afternoons and evenings. He saw and heard constantly that which reminded him of home and those he loved best. But he did not succumb to the torture. He faced his trials and resolved to make good.

While Nelson was battling against foes seen and unseen, Perry was engaged in gladiatorial combat with a savings ledger. In the space of a week he had developed a singularly profane vocabulary. Probably the contiguity of Watson had something to do with it. He was under the special tutelage of Watson, and the handling he received was anything but gentle. It surely did require patience to instill anything into that head of Porter's. His instructor would stand over him and tell him in a dozen words just exactly what entries to make in a customer's passbook. Porter would stare into oblivion during the lesson and when it was done make a dab at his ink-pot, enter up a cheque as credit, cross it out and make it a debit, then reverse the entry—all before Watson could interfere. The Bonehead was not slow; in fact, he was too rapid—but his swiftness was a serious detriment since the direction taken was usually wrong. Porter acted on impulses, and they seemed destined forever to be senseless. A swift inspiration came to him, he made a slash with his heavily inked pen, there was a blot, a figure with heavy lines drawn crookedly through it, an exclamation of despair—and then the blank look. The vacant expression seemed to be behind all his woes, and an empty mind was undoubtedly behind that.

"You missed your calling, Port," said Bill Watson on one occasion; "you should have been a sign painter. Those aren't figures you are making, you know."

Perry looked hopelessly at his work and then into the ledger keeper's face. Watson indulged in a spasm of mirth.

"I can hardly wait till balance day," he stammered, with difficulty controlling himself; "that nut of yours will crack—and I don't think there'll be enough kernel to excite a squirrel."

"Aw, cut it out and show me this," grumbled the savings-man.

"Yes," interrupted the teller, in his mandatory way, "don't be kidding him all the time, Watson."

The ledger keeper looked at Castle through the wire of the cage.

"Oh, hello, Clarice," he said, "when did you get back?"

The teller reddened, but made no reply. He was not accustomed to impudence, for he was a near relative of Inspector Castle's. This time, though, he could not find words to support his dignity, so he remained silent.

Evan heard him speaking to the manager about it, later.

"I simply won't stand it, Mr. Robb," he was saying; "they've got to show respect."

"Well, you know, Alf," said the manager carelessly, "they're only boys. Don't be too hard on them.... By the way, how do you like Nelson?"

"Oh, he's no worse than the general run," replied Castle impatiently; "I suppose he'll get there in time."

"Yes," said Robb, reflectively, "like the rest of us.... You know, I rather like the boy; he seems anxious to do his best."

Castle made no reply, but left the manager's office suddenly, as though disgusted at not having found satisfaction there. The manager sighed, deeply enough for Evan to hear, and murmured audibly:

"Mollycoddles, all of us!"

With that he slammed down his desk-top and reached for his hat with one hand and a half-smoked cigar with the other. When the front door closed behind him Watson and Perry engaged in a rough-and-tumble. A heavy ruler rolled to the floor with a bang, Porter's big boot struck a fixture, and various other accidents contributed to the hubbub.

"My ——, cut it out!" shrieked the helpless teller, glowing with wrath.

Watson made a grab for him, but he rushed into his cage and locked the door. The combatants were puffing too hard to speak, or one of them at least would probably have vented some sarcasm. Evan eyed the proceedings approvingly; it was a relief to witness a little disorder where the orderly teller-accountant ruled. Porter, with all his boneheadedness, was a match for any man in the office, including the manager, when it came to the primitive way of "managing" affairs; Evan was compelled to admire his physique and the tenacity with which he clung to an opponent. After all "the porter" possessed certain qualities not to be despised. But Watson hit the point uppermost in Nelson's mind.

"Port," he said gasping, "if you would wrestle with your job as gallantly as you do with an antagonist you'd soon be chief inspector."

Perry grinned.

"Come on, Bill," he coaxed, "put me next to this dope."

Bill bent over him and laid down the law. Evan finished his mail. The teller brushed the office from him with a whisk, and, adjusting his tie and hat to a nicety, walked out into the streets to be admired by the female population of Mt. Alban.

An hour later the "swipe" was diligently dusting the front office, his back to the door, when someone entered the bank. Thinking it was Porter he did not look up, but went on with his work. There was a sickening dusty smell in the office: the aftermath of a broom.

"Hello, there," said Robb; "do you work all the time, Nelson?"

Evan looked up with an apologetic smile, and, hurriedly dusting the manager's chair, made as though to leave the sanctum.

"Don't run away, my boy," said the manager; "I came in on purpose to see you. Sit down."

The junior obeyed.

"How do you like banking by this time?"

"Pretty well, sir, thank you," said Evan timidly.

Mr. Robb looked at him disconcertingly during a pause.

"Who advised you to join a bank staff, Nelson?" he asked, slowly.

"It was my own idea, Mr. Robb. I felt as though I had gone to school long enough at my father's expense. He earns his bread hard and I began to feel it was up to me to do something for myself."

"Oh, I see," said the manager, pensively. Again he was silent.

"Did you say you wanted to see me about something?" ventured the new junior.

"Well—I—I was just wondering, Nelson, if you had taken up with the bank just as a sort of notion, and if you had I was going to discourage you."

"Don't you think it's a good business, Mr. Robb?"

"Sure—sure—it's all right. That is, for certain ones. You'll probably be quitting it when you get older."

Evan did not reply immediately. He was trying to figure out what the manager meant.

"I hope I'll get along well," he said, finally.

"I hope so, Nelson; you deserve it; I'll do all I can for you. But the bank is rather uncertain, you know. We are all—well, more or less servants. Even I get my call-downs regularly. You didn't know that, eh? Well, you'll get wise to a whole lot of things as time goes on. However, I don't want to discourage you. Do your best wherever you are."

Mr. Robb puffed his cigar into life before continuing.

"Don't take things too seriously, though. Now Mr. Castle, for instance—anything he says just swallow it with a few grains of salt. He's got bank blue-blood in his veins, you know. And this sweeping and dusting—don't be so particular. You should be out playing ball or tennis. I must get a woman to clean up from now on. The last manager here started this business, but I'm going to stop it. I didn't say anything while Perry was on the job because it helped break him in to the habit of discipline—but you don't need a schoolmaster; in fact, you need a sporting coach.... Here, do you smoke?"

Evan declined the cigar with thanks.

"You're right," said Robb, "it's a poor habit.... Was there nothing in your home town that attracted you?" he asked suddenly.

"What do you mean—a business?"

"Yes."

"No, sir. There doesn't seem to be anything so good as the bank for a young fellow."

"That's right," smiled the manager; "there doesn't seem to be. The only thing some people in this country can see is the bank."

The junior looked surprised. Robb smiled satirically.

"A little of it won't do you any harm though, Nelson. Stay with it for a while, since you have left school for good, and something else will come along.... How do you like your boarding-house?"

"All right, sir."

When the manager had gone Nelson sat submerged in thought. He came to the conclusion that Mr. Robb had "some kick coming" or he would not give the banking business such cheap mention. He was swayed by the prejudice of his boyhood days when the bank boys of Hometon were the big dogs; and by the well-remembered expectations of his dear mother: "We're going to have a banker in our family!"

The same evening Evan was perched on a stool stamping a pad of "forms" when Watson entered.

"Hello, Nelson," casually. "There wasn't a phone call for me, was there?"

"No, I didn't hear any, Mr. Watson."

Bill turned his face and grinned. By and by he focused his black eyes on the new "swipe."

"How do you like banking by this time?" he asked soberly.

"I'm beginning to like it better," said Evan.

After a pause: "You know, they're apt to move a fellow any time; even you might be moved. You've got along a whole lot better than most juniors, and I wouldn't be sur——"

The ledger keeper broke off—the telephone was ringing. He took down the receiver and began to talk loudly enough for Evan to hear.

"Yes, long distance. Where? Toronto! All right. Hello. Yes, this is the S—— Bank, Mt. Alban. Yes, this is one of the clerks. Who? ..."

Watson put his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered excitedly to the staring junior:

"It's the inspector!" Then he continued to speak: "Yes, sir, we have two junior men here. Yes, sir, one of them is here now. Three weeks. Yes, he's pretty good. You want to speak to him, sir?"

Watson turned to Evan.

"Inspector wants you," he said in a businesslike way.

Evan felt his knees weaken. He stared at the ledger keeper despairingly, but bucked up when Watson said:

"Don't keep him waiting—remember he's the inspector."

"Hello," said Nelson, feebly. "Yes, sir. I—I suppose so, sir, if the b-bank wants me to. Report there at once?—all right, sir, I'll try—I mean I'll report—"

He hung up the receiver and murmured: "Berne!"

"Well," said Watson, like one who had been waiting in suspense for the news, "does he want to move you?"

The ledger keeper laughed very hard and called it a good joke.

"But it will mean more money for me, won't it?" asked Evan, anxiously.

"Sure, your salary will probably be doubled. They may put you on the cash there. It's an out-of-the-way place, you know, and you're practically an experienced man by now."

A few minutes later two of the boys from another Mt. Alban bank came to the front door and were admitted by Watson. They formed a semicircle around the latest man of the hour in bank moves, and plied him with questions. They appeared to enjoy the thought of his being moved to a remote quarter of the province. The thing finally struck Evan himself as funny, and they all indulged in a very satisfactory laugh. It developed later, but not before Evan had telegraphed the exciting news home to his mother, that only three out of the four had known what they were laughing at.

Soon after a boy enters the bank he begins to look for something exciting, in the form of promotion, or a move. He is given to understand that many interesting and profitable changes await every bankclerk; he knows not the day nor the hour when he may be transferred to far-off green fields, filled with strange girls and other "things" to make life pleasant. It is this ever-growing expectancy which gives banking a fascination for young men, especially country boys. They cannot see the day of weariness and monotony that is coming, the day of poverty and celibacy, because between that time and the present there is a golden glamor, a flame of luring light. This flame is fanned by the windy tongues of reckless clerks and fed with the "oxygen" that escapes from head office envelopes.

Evan believed it possible for his reputation to reach the ears of the inspector after three weeks' service, and, although he was surprised for the moment, he considered it reasonable enough that one of the high-up officials should communicate with him over the telephone. All night he counted cash in a nightmare and saw himself signing letters to head office as "pro-accountant." Early the following morning he packed his trunk and mentally bade his room good-bye. On his way to the telegraph office, before eight o'clock, he was surprised to meet Mr. Castle, the teller.

"I heard about it, Nelson," said Castle, stopping him on the street, "and came down to inform you. This funny work has got to stop."

The teller-accountant was partial to verbs of command.

"What's that?" said Evan, bewilderedly.

Then Castle explained the frame-up, and, leaving the junior to console himself on his first big disappointment, went up town to breakfast. "Long distance" had meant across the street in a competitive bank.

The feelings of humiliation and chagrin experienced by the poor "swipe" were exactly those that come to all bankboys in the days of their initiation. It was the beginning of wisdom for Evan: though the end was a long way off. Just as he had fallen from the position of pro-accountant to junior, and from $400 to $200, in one minute, would he tumble off many another pinnacle, on his way to solid ground.

It was a week before the Berne sensation died out in the "banking circles" of Mt. Alban. It expired one balance night, the end of the month of May. Everything but work must be forgotten in a bank when balance day comes.

The manager was back at his desk by seven o'clock, the teller in his cage a few minutes later, Watson turned up about seven-thirty—the savings-man had taken no nourishment at all. With a pair of red ears and a mouth full of indelible he sat propped up to his savings ledger, the picture of idiocy. His lips moved unintelligibly as he slowly crawled up a long row of figures, smearing the sheet en route. At regular intervals he stopped in the middle of a column, muttered profane repetitions, and started at the bottom again. Watson cast a twinkling eye on poor Perry.

"Hadn't you better graze, Port?"

No reply. This was a fight to the finish with Porter. His opponent had him throttled, but still he was game. The current-account ledgerman laughed ecstatically to himself. Castle was annoyed.

"Don't laugh, Watson," he said, again using his favorite imperative, "you'll have to balance the savings yourself anyway."

Bill Watson squinted through the wire at his fellow-clerk.

"The 'Rules and Regulations' put that up to the accountant," he said, still smiling. Castle ripped a blotted sheet out of his "blotter," but made no answer.

Evan had hurried through with his mail and his supper, and was now intensely occupied in adding the interest table. He was shown an out-of-date table with figures at the bottom of each page, and told that every month the junior had to add those stereotyped columns. Like all bank beginners, Nelson did not use his brains. Juniors are taught (1) to obey, (2) to work, (3) to ask no foolish questions. No matter how absurd a task appears, perform it without a kick. The happy-go-lucky boys take a chance and ask questions rather than do what seems to be unnecessary work; but Evan was the conscientious kind, the kind that obeys unquestioningly and never lets up until fully convinced of error. There is a noble six hundred in the bank, as well as the army; but in the bank the number is greater than six hundred.

Perry was working hard this balance-night, but not from a sense of duty—he wanted to show the management that he could balance that savings ledger. Porter was a bulldog; Evan more like a sleigh-dog.

The manager and the teller-accountant left the office about eleven o'clock. Watson was "out" a small amount in the current ledgers, but had left them to take down a new set of balances for Porter. Yawning hopelessly, Perry leaned against the desk, wondering how on earth he had ever managed to be out $396,492.11 in a ledger with deposits of only $400,000.....

The town of Mt. Alban was silent. The main street was in darkness, except for the gleam that came from the windows of three bank buildings. It was past midnight, but out of twenty bankboys in the town, fifteen were still working.

In one of the banks a young clerk slept, with his head on his hands and his hands on an interest table. The ledger-keeper found him thus.

"Too dang bad," he said to Perry; "I forgot all about him.... Hey, Nelson, it's morning!"

Evan raised his head and opened his eyes. Watson smiled good-naturedly.

"It's a shame to kid you," he said. "This was another bum steer. But the practice in adding won't hurt you, eh?"

Nelson stumbled up the back stairs and fell asleep on his bed to the tune of an adding-machine, run by Porter. In his dreams he stood at the foot of a mighty column—of figures. It reached to the clouds. A ghostly friend of Jack-in-the-Beanstalk's whispered to him that he must climb that column if he would reach Success. Evan began the ascent.