Soon after a boy enters the bank he begins to look for something exciting, in the form of promotion, or a move. He is given to understand that many interesting and profitable changes await every bankclerk; he knows not the day nor the hour when he may be transferred to far-off green fields, filled with strange girls and other "things" to make life pleasant. It is this ever-growing expectancy which gives banking a fascination for young men, especially country boys. They cannot see the day of weariness and monotony that is coming, the day of poverty and celibacy, because between that time and the present there is a golden glamor, a flame of luring light. This flame is fanned by the windy tongues of reckless clerks and fed with the "oxygen" that escapes from head office envelopes.
Evan believed it possible for his reputation to reach the ears of the inspector after three weeks' service, and, although he was surprised for the moment, he considered it reasonable enough that one of the high-up officials should communicate with him over the telephone. All night he counted cash in a nightmare and saw himself signing letters to head office as "pro-accountant." Early the following morning he packed his trunk and mentally bade his room good-bye. On his way to the telegraph office, before eight o'clock, he was surprised to meet Mr. Castle, the teller.
"I heard about it, Nelson," said Castle, stopping him on the street, "and came down to inform you. This funny work has got to stop."
The teller-accountant was partial to verbs of command.
"What's that?" said Evan, bewilderedly.
Then Castle explained the frame-up, and, leaving the junior to console himself on his first big disappointment, went up town to breakfast. "Long distance" had meant across the street in a competitive bank.
The feelings of humiliation and chagrin experienced by the poor "swipe" were exactly those that come to all bankboys in the days of their initiation. It was the beginning of wisdom for Evan: though the end was a long way off. Just as he had fallen from the position of pro-accountant to junior, and from $400 to $200, in one minute, would he tumble off many another pinnacle, on his way to solid ground.
It was a week before the Berne sensation died out in the "banking circles" of Mt. Alban. It expired one balance night, the end of the month of May. Everything but work must be forgotten in a bank when balance day comes.
The manager was back at his desk by seven o'clock, the teller in his cage a few minutes later, Watson turned up about seven-thirty—the savings-man had taken no nourishment at all. With a pair of red ears and a mouth full of indelible he sat propped up to his savings ledger, the picture of idiocy. His lips moved unintelligibly as he slowly crawled up a long row of figures, smearing the sheet en route. At regular intervals he stopped in the middle of a column, muttered profane repetitions, and started at the bottom again. Watson cast a twinkling eye on poor Perry.
"Hadn't you better graze, Port?"
No reply. This was a fight to the finish with Porter. His opponent had him throttled, but still he was game. The current-account ledgerman laughed ecstatically to himself. Castle was annoyed.
"Don't laugh, Watson," he said, again using his favorite imperative, "you'll have to balance the savings yourself anyway."
Bill Watson squinted through the wire at his fellow-clerk.
"The 'Rules and Regulations' put that up to the accountant," he said, still smiling. Castle ripped a blotted sheet out of his "blotter," but made no answer.
Evan had hurried through with his mail and his supper, and was now intensely occupied in adding the interest table. He was shown an out-of-date table with figures at the bottom of each page, and told that every month the junior had to add those stereotyped columns. Like all bank beginners, Nelson did not use his brains. Juniors are taught (1) to obey, (2) to work, (3) to ask no foolish questions. No matter how absurd a task appears, perform it without a kick. The happy-go-lucky boys take a chance and ask questions rather than do what seems to be unnecessary work; but Evan was the conscientious kind, the kind that obeys unquestioningly and never lets up until fully convinced of error. There is a noble six hundred in the bank, as well as the army; but in the bank the number is greater than six hundred.
Perry was working hard this balance-night, but not from a sense of duty—he wanted to show the management that he could balance that savings ledger. Porter was a bulldog; Evan more like a sleigh-dog.
The manager and the teller-accountant left the office about eleven o'clock. Watson was "out" a small amount in the current ledgers, but had left them to take down a new set of balances for Porter. Yawning hopelessly, Perry leaned against the desk, wondering how on earth he had ever managed to be out $396,492.11 in a ledger with deposits of only $400,000. … .
The town of Mt. Alban was silent. The main street was in darkness, except for the gleam that came from the windows of three bank buildings. It was past midnight, but out of twenty bankboys in the town, fifteen were still working.
In one of the banks a young clerk slept, with his head on his hands and his hands on an interest table. The ledger-keeper found him thus.
"Too dang bad," he said to Perry; "I forgot all about him. … Hey, Nelson, it's morning!"
Evan raised his head and opened his eyes. Watson smiled good-naturedly.
"It's a shame to kid you," he said. "This was another bum steer. But the practice in adding won't hurt you, eh?"
Nelson stumbled up the back stairs and fell asleep on his bed to the tune of an adding-machine, run by Porter. In his dreams he stood at the foot of a mighty column—of figures. It reached to the clouds. A ghostly friend of Jack-in-the-Beanstalk's whispered to him that he must climb that column if he would reach Success. Evan began the ascent.
CHAPTER III.
A MAN OF THE WORLD.
Miraculous as it seemed to Evan, the ledgers were finally made to balance. Porter lengthened his stride a foot and walked once more well back on his heels—just as if his bad work had not been responsible for a three days' dizzy mixup. A certain Saturday afternoon came round.
"I guess we can do without you till Monday noon," said the manager, over Nelson's shoulder, as the latter pondered over an unwritten money-order.
It was welcome news to Evan. He had come to feel, however, that his presence was indispensable to the well-being of the collection register and other books of record. It appeared to him that in one afternoon and a forenoon the hand of any other but himself must irrevocably "ball" the junior post.
"You mean you don't want me to drive back Sunday night?" he asked Mr. Robb, doubtingly.
"That's what. You'd better take all the holidays you can get now, Nelson; you'll be tied tighter than wax-end before you're in the business long."
Evan seemed still perplexed.
"Who'll take out the drafts Monday morning, Mr. Robb?" he asked, seriously.
The manager looked at him with an expression half humor and half pity.
"Do you suppose," he said with a grin, "that the merchants will be very badly offended at not getting these bills at the earliest moment?"
Evan smiled. Robb still stood beside him.
"Evan! … ."
He looked up, surprised to hear himself addressed so familiarly by the manager; but the latter was speaking:
". … Remember this: extra holidays never save you labor. The work is always waiting for your return, piling up through every hour of your pleasure."
Mr. Robb sighed and walked into his office, leaving the new junior to absorb another impression. The words spoken did impress Nelson. He sat gazing before