A Canadian Bankclerk Part 16

Yours sincerely, "FRANK."

"Success be darned!" mumbled Evan. The smile with which he had begun the letter had died down to an emaciated grin and finally evaporated between compressed lips. "I hope Reade enjoys himself!"

He went to the telephone and rang up two longs and three shorts--the post-office. Had he reread Frankie's letter and sat down to a.n.a.lyze it and to think, he probably would not have telephoned; but when a fellow has lost a summer's savings and a Thanksgiving dinner all at once, it is, perhaps, natural that he should feel uncertain even of his sweet-heart, and act accordingly.

"h.e.l.lo," said Evan; "is that you, Lily?"

"Yes, this is me!"

"How would you like to go for a drive? You would? All right, I'll call for you after supper."

Evan rented a livery, and Lily's folk raising no objection, the young girl went out to advertise the fact that she had a banker beau. All the town wondered.

It is easy to condemn Evan for his flirtations with Julia Watersea and Lily Allen. If he had stayed at school, matters would have been different. When the mind is wading through study it turns readily to pleasure, but does not dwell upon it. In the simple routine of the bank, in spite of the books he read, Evan found his mind drifting to excitement of some sort continually. When he brought it up, there was nothing for it to settle upon. When he left Mt. Alban he was being gradually drawn into what was called the "social life"--a life that would make him an ideal bankclerk, but nothing bigger. Now, after a few months of ease, he found himself craving the whirl again; and he must seize any small pleasure at hand.

So he seized Lily Allen around the waist and acted sentimentally.

"You mustn't," she murmured, making no effort to release herself.

"I must," said he. That was the way he felt.

When winter had come Evan had saved enough to take him home for Christmas. He was very careful with strangers, especially when they wore whiskers. He knew everybody in Creek Bend; especially did he know the Allens. After that night of the drive he and Lily had spent many an hour together. The result of it was that he let his correspondence with Frankie fall off, soothing his conscience with Reade.

Occasionally he sent a picture-postal to Julia Watersea, too, and when it was answered in like manner he always felt better.

Christmas was nearing now. The snow stayed, to prepare the roads for Santa's outfit. The two stores of Creek Bend had decorated their fronts with tissue-paper and pressed raisins, and the post-office emitted holly stickers.

A village post-office is always interesting. That of Creek Bend interested Evan, not because of curious loiterers--themselves curiosities--but princ.i.p.ally on account of its fair clerk. He admitted as much to himself. The village had him married to Lily, and he began to wonder if she really hadn't points over Frankie.

"Another of those bank letters you all look for so anxiously, Evan,"

she smiled, handing him an envelope from the Inspector's Department.

A few minutes later he called in the post-office again and beckoned Lily to the money-order wicket.

"I'm moved!" he whispered, excitedly.

Tears came into the young girl's eyes. Evan brushed them away that night with his handkerchief, but they would come again.

"I'll not forget you, Lily," he whispered.

And he never would forget her. In moments of introspection, in times of deepest thought, all his life through, he would remember her.

CHAPTER VII.

_A BANK HOLIDAY._

Christmas had come--again. A year had gone by.

Evan Nelson was preparing to go home for a two days' visit.

"Here, Henty," he said, "put your finger on this money parcel while I tie it."

The junior at Banfield branch had a large finger, just the sort for holding down a thong, although it guided a pen badly. He was a big, red-faced, s.h.a.ggy-haired fellow, born to the physical strain of a practical agriculturalist.

"Henty," said the teller, as he waxed the money parcel, "how did you ever get into the bank?"

"Why?" grinned the junior.

"Oh, I don't know. You're too strong or too something for this business. If I had your frame I'd go into the ring."

"This is ring enough for me," said Henty. "I can have a round here any time--with the cash book and savings."

The ledger keeper spoke up. (Henty's initials were A. P.)

"Say, Ape--I'll bet you lose more good sweat making out a settlement draft than you would covering a pig-pen with old tin."

"Aw, forget it," said A. P., smiling good-naturedly; "the bank has worse dubs than me. I mean than I. Take yourself for example----"

"Impossible," replied Filter, the ledger keeper.

Gordon Filter was tall, lean and pale. He was a sedentary person and loved meddling with figures. He swore continually about his salary and blasphemed against the bank, but his work was always perfect and he was always watching over it with pride. Filter was what was known as a "fusser." He worked slowly, mechanically, and without originality, but he made few mistakes. He was a good clerk--that was about the best he would ever be.

There was the strongest contrast between Henty and Filter. One was as "sloppy," clerically speaking, as the other was neat, and as healthy as the other was unhealthy. A. P. would seal the last envelope of his day's mail with a bang and rush out of the office to a game of baseball; Gordon would hover over his ledger in hope of finding an account unproved or untransferred. He always closed his book gently and allowed his hand to rest on it affectionately before consigning it to the vault. The junior drew $150 a year, and Filter $250.

Evan's salary was, by this time, $350. He had been in the bank almost two years. No man can be in the business that long without _earning_ at least ten dollars a week. In office dictionaries, however, the words "earn" and "get" are a long distance apart. Nelson was teller and accountant in a branch of four. The manager was delicate and could not do very much work. Evan ran the cash, liability and general ledgers, looked after most of the loans, wrote nearly all returns, and superintended every department of the office routine. He worked three nights a week and every day from 8.30 until 6.30, eating lunch in his cage while he handed out infectious bank notes.

His was the only bank in Banfield, a village of nine hundred inhabitants. There was a good farming district around the village; a big load of stock was shipped every week, and poultry and dairy products were profitably handled. The bank did an uncommonly large business, but owing to the size of the town, head office would not allow H. H. Jones, the manager, more than three of a staff. Jones relied on the faithfulness and a.s.siduousness of his teller-accountant, and Evan struggled through each day as best he could.

The Christmas season is always busy. Fortunately for Evan, however, the manager was feeling better as the holiday neared; he took over the cash to let the teller away. Filter was too poor to go home for turkey, and the junior was waiting in great suspense for a cheque from home. Deposits do not const.i.tute all the money that is paid into the coffers of Canadian banks: farmers and townsmen help the bank feed, clothe and provide recreation for its employes; they send remittances regularly to bankclerk sons who must keep up an appearance in spite of starvation pay.

"Leave the twenty-third returns for me, Mr. Jones," said the teller, with holiday courage and generosity, "and let anything wait you can.

I'll be back the twenty-sixth."

"All right, Nelson, we'll get along some way."

The manager's words indicated that Evan was indispensable, which was practically the case. He did the work of two men--on the salary of half a man or less. He had been working slavingly at Banfield for a year on less than a living wage, learning practically nothing that would fit him for anything but bank life. He had even missed summer furlough, because of the manager's illness. The bank thanked him by letter for the sacrifice, and promised him "an extra two weeks later on."

What had kept Nelson interested for a solid year in the village of Banfield? Chiefly work; after that a lake and girls. How many years of faithful service do branch banks owe to the attractiveness and amiability of town girls!

His work alone provided Evan with all the excitement he needed, and when reactions came there was always a young lady to be paddled out on the water. Bank work is entertaining; few clerks do not enjoy it, once they have mastered the routine. Time flies when a fellow is on the cash in a busy office; it vanishes when he is also in charge of the office as acting-accountant. Figuring out entries and chasing balances is a fascinating occupation, like vaudeville, and just as precarious a specialty.

A conscientious bankclerk cannot look on a heap of acc.u.mulated work with indifference; when he is also ambitious he rolls up his sleeves and forgets everything in the debris of vouchers and figures. Like a mole he works away, his eyes blinded (to keep out the muck); unlike the mole he never succeeds in building a nest for himself. The heap diminishes gradually before him and he thinks he sees rock-bottom, when suddenly an avalanche comes down, obliterating marks of previous effort and storing up labor for days, weeks, or months to come.

Surely, there are few occupations more all-possessing than banking. A boy is under a heavy responsibility; the thought makes him proud; pride spurs him to his best; he forgets--really forgets--to exercise. Often he is so worn out he cannot take exercise without physical suffering.

Moreover, the clerical strain makes him sleepy, and, as social affairs and night work prevent early retiring, he must get his sleep in the morning; thus out-door recreation is neglected. Whether or not it should be, it is. Excessive inside work takes away the inclination to exercise, and only those who know a large number of bankclerks understand how serious are the results of this diseased lethargy.