A Canadian Bankclerk Part 32

Watson's eyes fired and he spoke pa.s.sionately. For the moment Evan's presence had brought back Mt. Alban days too vividly. The color gradually died from Bill's face.

"I'm a jackdaw, Nelsy," he said, trying to smile. "Do you remember how I used to carry on up there? I had a rotten time in Mt. Alban, but it was the best time I ever had. I wish to the good Lord I could do something besides banking. But my salary is now $750, and I'm twenty-three; I couldn't draw the same money at anything else, and stand any chance of promotion. No mercantile house, for instance, wants a man of twenty-three. What's a fellow to do?"

Unable to answer the question, Evan gazed out of the window at throngs of men and girls on their way to business.

"Just look at that mob," said Bill; "lots of them are working on about one-half what they're worth, and they've been years getting in where they are. Take the young men you see, they've been specializing for years, some of them, and draw about fifteen dollars a week now--just what I do. Their chances are away ahead of mine, as a rule, because some day they'll be salesmen or managers or something--and they're in very little danger of being fired. Do you think for a minute I could step out of here into their boots and get fifteen dollars. No, sir."

"Why stick to clerical work then?" asked Evan, repeating a question that had often been ineffectively put to him.

"What else can I do?"

Evan opened his mouth to advise, but closed it again in thought; and the longer he thought the more thoughtful he became. Bill was right, what could he do? He might dig drains, but where would that lead him?

Downward, certainly. Still, there must be positions in so large a city as Toronto, for men who could fill them. He expressed himself to that effect.

"The trouble is to find them," said Bill. "When a fellow works from eight in the morning until ten or eleven at night, and usually on Sunday, what chance has he to look around? I'm never out of here till six o'clock, at the earliest. You can't run across a job through the night, you know. We don't even get out for lunch."

"You don't!"

"No; we eat those ten-cent stomach-aches handed around in carts.

Occasionally we get a c.o.c.kroach, to relieve the monotony; but not often. Usually it's just common flies. Sometimes I have such pains in my interior I have to double up on a stool and pray for relief."

Evan smiled wanly. Bill was a reckless talker, but he generally managed to say something sensible every two or three sentences.

"How about stenography, Bill?"

"That's all right for a fellow of eighteen or nineteen, Evan, who can afford to start in at ten dollars a week. But when a fellow of twenty-three applies for a job like that they think there is something wrong with him, and some kid of seventeen, fresh from business college, steps in ahead of him.... By the way, why don't _you_ quit?"

Evan looked toward the street again.

"I haven't had time to think about it lately. I thought, when they moved me here, that something would turn up in the city. That's one reason why I was so glad to come."

"Well, don't fool yourself," said Watson. "Your work in Banfield will look like kindergarten when you're here a week. And don't have any idle dreams about studying shorthand and typewriting at night; you'll kill yourself if you try it. It isn't possible where fellows work like they have to in a city bank. I imagine they'll shove you on the cash book, where I am now. If they do, good night!"

"Is it written like the town cash book?" asked Evan, turning his attention, from habit, to the work before him.

It is singular how soon a bankboy learns to give work or the discussion of work precedence of everything else. He will go out on the verandah at a party, with some of his confreres, and discuss banking until he forgets the prettiest girl at the dance. He loves to flirt with his work at a distance; at close range it fascinates but does not charm.

Watson laughed briefly.

"The general idea is the same," he said; "but there are a hundred extras. It's the details of the city cash book, and of all other city routine, that get your goat. It's not so much the quality of the work as the quant.i.ty that eats you up. Believe me, kid, you're never done."

Realization only comes with contact. Watson led the new man back to the cash-book desk, and proceeded to give him an outline of the work.

Evan's vision swayed. At first he was unable to formulate an intelligent question. When he began asking Bill said, apologetically:

"Sorry, kid, I'm not balanced yet. You'll have to take another lesson again. Maybe they won't put you on this post after all. No use of wasting good energy till you have to."

Therewith Bill grappled with his big red-backed book, and looked neither to the right hand nor to the left.

Toward nine o'clock the boys began coming into the office in instalments. As they pa.s.sed Nelson, who was leaning against a desk, some of them nodded, recognizing a comrade, but most of them pa.s.sed by with merely a glance. Men were coming and going every week.

Evan had speculated on the sensation he would make as he--a real, live pro-accountant--walked into the city office. Where was the sensation now? Within himself. He experienced an involuntary chill; the machinery of which he const.i.tuted a cog was beginning to grind. He should not have been so susceptible to those petty influences that impregnate a new environment; but he was below normal health by reason of work and worry endured at Banfield, and inclined to look on the dark side. Instead of going to work in a city bank he should have taken a trip to the country and engaged with a farmer to plant onions or s.h.i.+ngle a barn.

At the front of the office there were two desks. Evan asked one of the juniors, of which there were three, who occupied these desks.

"The accountant and a.s.sistant-accountant," was the answer.

Branch men were familiar with the signature of the Toronto accountant, for he always signed the letters; but not with his a.s.sistant.

"What's the a.s.sistant-accountant's name?" asked Evan.

"Castle," said one of the boys; "Mr. Alfred Castle."

Toronto was destined to be a nest of surprises for the Banfield clerk; he might as well begin getting used to them.

"Do I report to the manager?" he asked Watson.

"No," said Bill, "the manager won't know you till you're here a month or so. You report to Alfy."

"You didn't tell me _he_ was here," said Evan.

"Didn't I? Well, it wasn't very important anyway. I forgot you ever knew Castle. I'd like to forget him myself. Without kidding, Nelson, he is the best imitation of a sissy I ever saw. He has a pull, though, and it almost makes him brave, sometimes. I don't say anything to him any more--he'd have me fired, and I need the little fifteen dollars per week, minus guarantee premiums."

Bill had wasted a minute, so he cut off short and delved into the cash book once more, muttering curses on the third teller, who was out in the additions of his teller's cash book.

Castle entered the bank about 9.15. He wore a light tweed suit, a light felt hat, tan gloves, tan shoes, and a black necktie stuck with a pearl pin. The juniors, who had been indulging in an early row over the condition of the copying rags, sobered down when Castle's narrow form glided through the inner door.

Evan, who had been watching for him, went toward him easily, and held out his hand.

"Well, Nelson," said Castle, without offering to shake hands, "you'll go on the cash book."

Evan lingered a moment, expecting to be asked a personal question, even if it were a careless one; but Alfred dived into his mail and did not pause as he added: "Watson will break you in."

"And if ever I get the chance," thought Evan, "I'll break you in."

With that and other hostile reflections he turned and walked to the rear of the office.

"Bill," he said, "I'm to go on your job. What do you suppose they'll do with you?"

Watson looked at him comically.

"Never worry about the other fellow," he said; "not here. It's each man for himself in a city office and G.o.d help the hindermost. Don't forget that, Evan, or you'll be imposed on right and left. Now, come here and get a bird's-eye view of your new friend. You'll find him a nasty brute to handle; he rears, bites, bucks and balks. The time you think he is going to take you over the river he turns tail, and you hit a balance about 1 a.m. You not only have to balance your friend the cash book, you've got four tellers to balance, and they have everything beat for bulls. Our old friend 'the porter' wasn't in it for a minute with these mutts here."

"Are you ready?" shouted a resonant voice.

"Yes," said Bill. "Mr. Key, meet Mr. Nelson, from Banfield. Now, Nelsy, beat it to the bas.e.m.e.nt till we get through calling. You'll need a cigarette to fix you up for the day's work."

"Yes," said Key, "take all the const.i.tutionals you can get;" then in a loud voice: "Credit clearing house--come on, come on!"