A Canadian Bankclerk Part 9

"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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sbook 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 f.a.gged 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.