Jack Preston
A Canadian Bankclerk
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066144531
Table of Contents
PREFACE
The story herein told is true to life; true, the greater part of it, to my own life. Also, I am convinced that my experience in a Canadian Bank was but mildly exciting as compared with that of many others.
My object in publishing "Evan Nelson's" history is to enlighten the public concerning life behind the wicket and thus pave the way for the legitimate organization of bankclerks into a fraternal association, for their financial and social (including moral) betterment.
Bank officials, I trust, will see to it that my misrepresentations are exposed.
To mothers of bankclerks who attach overmuch importance to the gentility of their Boy's avocation; to fathers who think that because the bank is rich its employes must necessarily become so in time; to friends who criticize the bankclerks of their acquaintance for not settling down—this story is addressed.
To the men of our banks who are dissatisfied with the business they have chosen, or someone else has chosen for them; to Old Country clerks who come out to Canada under the impression that Five Dollars is as good as One Pound; to bank employes in the United States, and to office men everywhere—I am telling my tale.
Finally, I appeal to "the girls we have known." Be sure you study the subject thoroughly before accusing that inscrutable, proud and procrastinating clerk of yours of inconstancy.
THE AUTHOR.
A CANADIAN BANKCLERK
CHAPTER I.
OUR BANKER.
The Ontario village of Hometon rested. It had been doing for so many years. There, in days gone by, pioneers with bushy beards—now long out-of-date, but threatening to sprout again—had fearlessly faced the wolf-haunted forests, relying, no doubt, upon the ferocity of their own appearance to frighten off the devourer.
A few old elm trees still remained in the village, to protect it from the summer sun; and still lived also an occasional pioneer, gnarled and rugged like the old elms, to sigh and shake his head at the new civilization, and shelter whom he might from the power of its stroke.
One of these ancient fathers meandered across the main street and into a grocery store. He plucked a semi-petrified prune from its sticky environment and drew a stool up to the counter.
"Well, Dad," greeted the grocer, "what's new in the old town?"
The old gentleman worried the stolen morsel into one cheek and replied:
"Our boys keep a-leavin' on us, John; keep a-goin'."
While the grocer stood wondering whether the "keep a-goin'" referred to himself or "our boys," a customer entered.
"How d'you do, Mrs. Arling," he smiled, leaving the old man to his quid-like mouthful.
But, in the case of a lady shopper, where business interferes with the telling of a story—or anything—postpone business.
"Ah yes, Grandpa Newman," she sighed, "the town will soon be deserted."
The grey-haired man looked at her as much as to ask: "Pray, how did you manage to overhear what I was saying?" What he did ask was:
"How does his mother feel, Mrs. Arling?"
"I'm just on my way there now," replied the lady-shopper; "give me a can of pork-and-beans, will you, John?"
The grocer, whom almost everyone in town called by his first name, climbed nimbly up the side of his store and fished out the desired article. Meanwhile Mrs. Arling winked at the old man and