A Canadian Bankclerk Part 33

Away they went, while Evan stood by in hope of learning something. He lost the trend of things looking at Key's white hair and faded face.

He wondered how many years the little man had been a bankclerk.

Besides Key there was another clerk with grey hair.

"Who's that?" Nelson asked the oldest and most talkative junior.

"Mr. Willis. He was a manager once, but head office didn't like his policy, so they cut his salary down from $2,400 to $1,400 and sent him here to this sweat-shop to finish it out."

"To finish what out?"

"Why, his career. Some career, eh?"

Evan suddenly remembered that he was a country accountant, and it was poor policy to abet a junior in heterodoxy.

"He must have done something wrong, didn't he?"

The junior, a sharp youngster, looked extremely indignant now.

"No chance," he said; "Willis is one of the decentest heads around this dump. He made no bulls: it was a pure question of policy. Ask anybody. The collection man over there" (pointing to a red-haired fellow of about thirty) "used to work with him. I brought Johns in the bills before three o'clock last fourth of the month and he opened his heart to me. Johns is my pal around here, although he never sees me outside the office."

"You seem to like him pretty well," said Evan, smiling.

"I do. I let the other kids have Castle's work; when that guy travels east I always go west."

Seeing how nihilistic and iconoclastic the young chap was, Evan deemed it unwise to longer remain in his society; he wandered across to the "C" desk. There, two men were ruling up large books in preparation for the morning's clearing. They were standing with their faces to the light and working with indelible pencils. That job always affected their eyes, Evan was told, after a few weeks or months.

The clearing came in. The paying teller shouted for the fourth teller.

The latter was in the bas.e.m.e.nt--but not for long. Two "C" men had him by the collar and were bringing him up the cellar steps in jumps.

"We're sick of late clearings," said Marks, the "husky guy with the small ankles," as he was called.

"Any more of this monkey-doodle business," rejoined Cantel, "and we'll distribute you around the coal bas.e.m.e.nt."

"Aw, shut up," growled the fourth teller; "you'd think your clearing amounted to something."

Ten minutes later the two current-account ledger-keepers were howling for "more stuff." They looked like a couple of hungry wolves, and kept up their yowling as persistently as those wild rovers.

"See here," bawled Marks, "you guys got to wait till we get it. What in ---- do you think we are--jugglers or magicians? It's rather hard to balance it, you know, Brower, till we get it out of the envelopes.

Get me?"

"No, but I will get you," retorted Brower, "if you don't grease that adding machine."

Cantel grinned, and kicked his desk-mate, Marks.

"Say, Ankles," he said, "we'll get him in the bas.e.m.e.nt at noon and I'll suggest gloves, eh?"

He with the tapering figure made no reply; he was chasing nine cents up and down a long adding-machine strip.

"They must have a brilliant bunch over at the S----," he said, grinding his teeth; "I never knew one of their slips to balance."

Key had done so much checking in his day he looked upon the calling of the cash book as a morning recreation. The rest of the day he had little time to talk, so he got a large number of stray sentences into the totals that made up the cash book.

"Debit nine eighty-five drafts issued," he called--"tell Banfield to come over here--get it?--credit head office branch account six hundred even--how long has he been here?--I called that once--exchange on money orders fifteen cents--Well, Mr.--er--No! I said fifteen. What's the matter with you, Watson, were you drunk again last night?"

And so on. Key suggested to Nelson that he wander around the office during the forenoon and get a general idea of the way things were done.

"You'll find it a new business altogether from country banking," he said, not very much to the new man's encouragement.

Following Key's advice Evan endeavored to learn a few generalities.

About the only thing he learned, however, was that every man had a post that kept him busy every minute, and did not want to be interrupted.

One grouchy chap looked at the Banfield man and said:

"Say, Nibs, the bank doesn't pay us to instruct greenhorns; it only pays us to get through this dope you see here, and half pay at that."

Evan was offended; one of Henty's blushes came to his cheeks.

"I don't think anything you could teach a fellow would be worth much anyway," he replied; and the teller next door stopped in the middle of a heavy deposit of putrid money to laugh and remark:

"Strike one for Banfield."

It seemed to Evan that he was going through

juniorship days again. n.o.body appeared to have any respect for him.

Still, as far as that was concerned, n.o.body had any respect for anybody. He consoled himself with this observation.

What was called "noon hour" came anywhere between noon and three o'clock. The tellers bolted their portion of food with monied hands, stopping between bites to serve a customer. The ledger-keepers ate with their backs to the wicket, turning around nervously every time anyone rustled a slip of paper or made sounds like a pa.s.s-book on the ledge. The "C" men and one or two others were privileged to eat in the bas.e.m.e.nt, but when one was balanced another wasn't, and as a balance aided digestion and the man ahead had not the time to wait for the one behind, they usually ate alone. Sometimes, by particularly good management, several of the boys got together for five minutes below and scuffled; but the fun was short-lived.

Evan ate his hand-out on an old lounge in the furnace-room. It was for all the world like a prison cell. Outside, the city was bright and wonderful; in the dark, chill office and gloomier cellar there was but one factor, one idea--Work.

The Banfield teller felt singularly alone in that bas.e.m.e.nt, eating a cheese sandwich. The boys were so engrossed in their own affairs they had no time for welcoming new men. Aside from the two ledger-keepers and the two "C" men, the boys were almost strangers to each other. The Banfield man would have to learn, like the others, to affiliate with a book. He wondered, as he sat in the bas.e.m.e.nt alone, how long it would take him. He speculated on the hit Filter would make in that soulless, endless city-office swirl.

The morning had been confusing to the new man, but the afternoon was chaotic. He stood beside Watson, trying to get the mult.i.tudinous cash-book entries through his head, until he was played out. He yawned repeatedly and his head pained ominously. Two and a half years of office work were telling on him, although he scarcely realized to what extent, and but for a very fortunate circ.u.mstance--which seemed to Evan an extremely unfortunate one--he would have experienced a nervous breakdown before long. But more about that circ.u.mstance later.

The bank door closed at three o'clock. Many people have an idea that work inside a bank ceases at that hour. That is one of the many delusions cherished respecting the business, one of the harmless delusions. After three o'clock, especially in a city office, the real strain begins. Tellers must balance their cash, and, on salaries varying from $600 to $1,200 (often less than the former, but not so often more than the latter) make good any loss sustained through the day. Every balance is a nervous shock and drains away its share of the clerk's vitality; if the chance of personal loss is hidden away in his balance, the strain is that much the worse.

In the din that followed closing, Evan thought his head would burst.

The boys lighted their pipes and cigarettes, threw off their coats, and commenced the scramble. Curses and complaints came from every quarter.

The place was a madhouse.

Even up in the accountant's department there was loud talking. Evan was up there looking for the draft register when he heard the accountant say:

"It's got to be stopped. If you think we're going to stand for this sort of thing you're badly mistaken."

The man to whom V. W. Charon was speaking trembled slightly, not from fear of the accountant but under the influence of alcohol. He lifted his weary, gla.s.sy eyes to reply, but his lips moved inaudibly and he stared at Evan.

"This has happened twice in the last month," continued Charon, sharply.

"Three times," corrected Castle.

The broad-shouldered figure paid no attention to anyone but Evan. He staggered past the accountants and held out his hand to the new man.