_THE SEED MULTIPLIES._
Henty was accessible by telephone. He answered Evan's excited summons.
Between them the boys got Penton home and in bed. It was no simple
task, either. The manager was obstreperous, but at the same time he
showed the white feather. Drink could not have made him so ridiculous:
there must have been something ridiculous in his nature.
"Why don't you let me alone?" he whined.
"Because," said Evan, "you're disgracing the bank. If you don't come
home I'll report you to head office."
They were on the street. Penton shuddered and went with them more
willingly when the threat had penetrated his clogged brain.
"You won't report me, will you? You won't report me?" he repeated in a
fawning manner, fearful and pitiful.
"Not if you cut this out," said the teller.
"I'll c-cut it out, old c-cock," laughed Penton raspingly, swaying to
the poison in his blood, "me f-for the water wagon after this."
He raved about himself until they had him in bed, then he raved about
everything.
"Do you want me to stay a while, Mrs. Penton?" asked the teller.
"No thank you, Mr. Nelson," she replied, wearily; "he will be all right
now. Oh, I'm so afraid this will be talked of all over town. Do you
think so?"
"Nobody saw him," said Nelson consolingly, "but a few drunks, and
anything they say won't matter."
"Oh, I hope so," she said; "it would be dreadful if the town turned
against us. This is our first branch, you know, and a scandal like
this might ruin us."
"Don't worry, Mrs. Penton; people are kind in this town, if they _are_
behind the times. They always forgive the first offence, and sometimes
more. During the two weeks Mr. Penton has been here he has made lots
of friends."
Mrs. Penton began to be comforted, for what the teller said was true.
Penton had a way with him among people; it was a hypocritical way, of
course, but the affectation of it was not clear to the kind, simple
people of Banfield. His ignoble flattery passed for amiability and
good-will.
"It won't occur again," said Mrs. Penton, thoughtfully; "this will be a
lesson to him. I wish you would frighten him, Mr. Nelson."
Henty had to smile. The manager's wife also smiled then. It was
impossible to look worried or cross in the face of what Filter called
"the ape's grin." Evan, however, was the first to sober. He was
thinking of the day he had entered the bank, and how he had thrilled at
sight of a living manager, an appointee of head office. Now he was
asked to frighten one of these potentates into subjection.
"I'll make him believe the people of the town are sore," said the
teller, pensively.
As they walked to their boarding-houses up the frosty street, the two
boys discussed matters.
"I feel kind of sorry for him," said Henty; "he must be a regular
booze-fighter."
"Yes. I wonder did head office know it when they sent him up here?"
Henty had no idea. Being simply a junior he did not venture an opinion
concerning head office. He did express himself about the unofficial
Penton, however.
"I don't like him, Nelson."
"No," said Evan, "he is a mistake. I see trouble ahead for us. I
can't understand why the bank sent him up here. He has evidently been
used to a fast life, and there's no excitement here for him except
booze."
Henty had reached his lodging. With a "good-night" and a sigh he
entered the cold storage where he put in the nights.
Evan, drawing one hundred and fifty dollars a year more than the
junior, went further up the hill and landed in a warmer room. He
lighted a lamp and prepared to thoroughly peruse a couple of letters.
They were more than a couple, they were a pair. Julia reminded him of
the "perfectly lovely" times they had spent together, and Lily spoke of
the "grand evenings" they had walked or driven in. The Mt. Alban girl
intimated that she was without "such a friend" now, and the Creek Bend
girl spoke about the scarcity of "the right kind of fellows." Both
letters were a challenge for Evan to act consistently with smile or
kiss bestowed in the past, and a reminder that girls do not forget so
readily as bankclerks might wish.
Folding the two little love-notes together, he held them above the lamp
chimney and watched them burn. He did not wear the expression of a
Nero, but of an Abram offering up that which was part of himself. He
was not burning sheets of paper, but leaves from his life: sheets that
he declared must become ashes to him--and to them.
"Yes," he thought, "it is better to make them angry than to string them
along and break their hearts at last."
He continued to reason with himself:
"In the first place, I can't tell which of them I like best; therefore
I don't love either of them. In the second place, it will be years
before I shall draw enough money to marry on."
There was a third place, but Evan wanted to avoid it, for in that
"place" sat Frankie Arling. The Bonehead also sat there, with his arms
around Frankie.
Unable to banish this picture from his imagination, Evan finally
delivered himself up to thoughts of Frankie: only in that way could he
depose the redoubtable Porter.
The more Evan compared Frankie with Julia Watersea and Lily Allen, and
with others whom he had met, the surer he felt, of her superiority. He
regretted having hurt her at his home on Christmas Day, and knew he had
done it because he cared for her. Thoughts of Perry gave him a sick
feeling in his vitals, but he could not convince himself that Frankie
cared anything about "the porter." What had become of all the other
Hometon bankclerks she had temporarily tantalized?
In his quiet room the Banfield teller mused. After two years of
banking he felt himself further from Frankie Arling than he had felt
the day he went away. He was within a few days of nineteen now; his
views on everything had undergone a change. Yet, he knew that he was
more desirous than ever of marrying Frankie. There are moments when we
see our hearts before us under an X-ray more wonderful than that used
in medicine. Evan was given a glimpse of his inmost self, and what he
saw was startling to him. He knew he loved Frankie Arling, and that he
would be happy if he married her, even at nineteen! Age probably has
less to do with the proper kind of marriage than is often supposed.
There are boys of seventeen who would make good husbands, whereas some
men are never fit. Evan knew he could have settled down at nineteen
and made a success of marriage--if he could only have afforded it.
Knowing, though, the futility of dreaming against such odds as seven
dollars a week and the bank system of increases, he forced his mind off
matrimony and thought of Frankie only as an unattainable object he
loved. In the midst of his dreaming loomed up again visions of other
girls, chiefly Julia and Lily. He felt guilty for having shown them
attention. He experienced remorse, for it was possible he had (the
phrase passed facetiously through his brain) "built better than he
knew." The letters just burnt were not at all comforting in this
connection.
Nelson had met bankboys who delighted in what they called "stringing
skirts." Those fellows were despicable to him; they were scarcely
worth despising. And their numbers were altogether too large. He had
met others--very many--who were not in the despicable class, but who
also were guilty of unfaithfulness. Why, he asked himself, were
conditions in the bank conducive to such a state of affairs?
It was, experience answered, because a fellow's mind was unoccupied
after hours, and for many other reasons. He was among the most
attractive people, and was obliged to dress well and be amiable. If
girls were attracted to him it could do business no harm--and business
comes first. When a move came along a fellow was lonely for a while
and longed to be back at the town he had just left. Naturally he wrote
a more or less pathetic letter to the girl who had liked him best, and
she, being also a little lonely, replied with a touch of tenderness. A
fellow came back with another letter, stronger than the first, written
in a particularly dark hour, and the girl left behind began to feel
herself a party to something serious. Letters went back and forth
until a fellow was invited out in the new town, or otherwise met
another fair one. Then his letters dropped off. Probably he liked the
girl left behind and could have fallen in love with her; but he knew he
could not hold out hopes of marriage, and why spoil her chances by
writing any longer than was absolutely necessary? Sometimes the girl
left behind persisted in her writing. Several of them, if he had
worked in a number of towns, usually did. A fellow could not be rude
to them--he must let them down gradually; so he wrote regularly for a
while, praying that the growing frigidity of his tone would finally
discourage.
Thus it went, town after town. The bankman drifted along, taking no
girl seriously, but using them all so, out of necessity. If he was an
unscrupulous person he enjoyed it; if he knew what conscience meant he
periodically took himself to task--but never quite solved the problem.
There was no solution to it. One could not be a hermit or a boor
because girls had hearts and the bank had none. He must play the game.
He was taking a big chance of having his own heart cracked, and thought
of danger for himself fostered recklessness toward the weaker sex.
Something, a solemn voice it seemed, whispered to Evan that a young man
of iron could go through the ordeal of eight or ten years' bank service
and run the gauntlet of attractive femininity without injury to a
single soul; but young men are not made of iron. Evan wondered if
those who wrote the Rules and Regulations had daughters, or if they
remembered the letters they had received when they were clerking in
little towns. Why didn't they take the whole of human nature into
consideration when they laid down laws to govern employes? The fact
that they had ignored the right of young men to marry at a reasonable
age had wrought a thousand published wrongs and ten thousand wrongs
that would never reach the press.
In his silent room the young teller rebelled against the bonds that
held him and his fellows. He counted the years that must elapse before
he could hope to marry. At one hundred dollars increase per year it
would take him seven years more to earn $1,050. In the East the
"marriage minimum" was $1,000, in the West $1,200. Like Jacob he must
work seven years for his wife. And then would it be Rachel or someone
else? Would Frankie wait such an age for him? Could any man expect a
girl to believe in the seriousness of his intentions for eighty-four
months--a year of weeks? He believed she would wait if she understood,
but how could a girl understand "business" like that?
The teller's mind grew darker as he mused. He saw only gloom ahead.
The drunken manager staggered into his room, in spirit, and delivered
another lecture on the "aristocracy of banking." Bah!
Evan filled with rebellion as his situation stood out before him--a
sudden pain in the head warned him that he was worrying. Then came a
slight reaction.
"Pshaw!" he muttered, "I'm putting myself in a rotten humor. I'll feel
better in the morning."
And so he did. The "light of common day" is often preferable to the
illusions of night. In spite of his disturbed state of mind Evan had
slept well. Penton, too, had slept, but not well. Judging from his
appearance in the morning, his dreams must have been diabolical.
When the teller entered the office Penton greeted him sullenly.
"Well," he said, grouchily, "I suppose I made a nice mess of things
last night. I suppose every ---- gossip in town will talk about it for
months."
In spite of his grouch the manager looked frightened. Anyone could see
he was worried.
"Not many know of it," said Evan, indifferently.
"Do you think they will blab?" Penton was still unrepentant. His
brazenness irritated the teller, who answered simply:
"Yes."
Penton looked at him angrily.
"See here," he said, imperiously, "I don't give a ---- what these
yokels think of me. I am manager here, and if I want to take a glass
that's my business; understand?"
Evan made no reply. He walked doggedly from the manager's office to
his cage and set to work. Penton stood pulling at the inflamed tip of
his upper lip. His bluffing had failed. When he approached Nelson it
was humbly.
"I hope you'll try to fix things up as much as possible, old man," he
said.
Under the circumstances Evan would rather have been called Old Nick
than "old man," but he nodded obedience to the manager's wishes and
went about his business.
"I promise it won't happen again," said Penton, grovelling.
"It will soon pass off," said Evan.
He might have meant that Penton's resolution would disappear. However,
his words were consolation to the nerveless manager, who, from that
time on, was quite servile. He ingratiated himself with the teller at
every opportunity. His mock humility was loathsome to Evan and made
him fear indefinitely. He worried over it. But he could not decide
what to do or how to treat Penton.
Business was rushing. The work in the box had gradually increased, and
other work had piled up since the new manager's arrival. Jones, though
sick half the time and half sick the rest of the time, had done more
than Penton would do. Penton, despite his criticism on the former
manager's system, made no real effort to establish anything better. He
often pointed out "how we used to do it in the M---- Bank," and
sometimes Evan agreed with him but he never took off his coat and dug
out the submerged junior or ledger-keeper as Jones had done, He seemed
to be engaged forever in a mental calculation. Frequently he did not
hear questions addressed to him. What little work he undertook was
haggled at in spasms and usually left for the accountant to finish.
All the boys were loaded down with routine. They never thought of
leaving the office until six o'clock, and night-work was now the rule.
Evan began to have headaches.
The people of Banfield kindly let Penton's first offence pass, as it
had been prophesied they would. Everyone knew about it, of
course--what village of nine hundred population ever lost sight
entirely of such a piece of news?
Mrs. Penton was delighted to know that she and her husband had not been
disgraced. Penton pretended, now the danger was past, that he would
not have cared.
"It's a funny thing," he said, with an adjective, "if a man can't take
a social drink without insulting the town."
This remark was addressed to the whole staff. At times Penton was
absurdly pompous and uncommunicative before the boys; at other times he
entered into a mysterious intimacy with them, a relationship
distasteful to them. They preferred his professional tactics to those
others.
"By heck," said Henty one afternoon, after one of Penton's good-fellow
demonstrations, "I naturally hate that devil!"
Nelson laughed immoderately, in the way one laughs who has been under a
strain too long. Filter, even, thought the remark funny.
"I understand," he said, "that Penton has bought all his furniture on
credit from Hunter's."
"Who told you?" asked Evan, interestedly.
"Jack Hunter," replied the ledger-keeper.
Nelson consulted his thoughts. He was conscious of an addition to the
vague fear he already cherished.
The end of the month (January) kept the Banfield staff so busy they had
little time to discuss the one great theme--Penton. He kept to his
office pretty well and seemed to read the newspaper for hours every
day. He did work a little on the loan return, after Evan had balanced
the liability ledger, but left the totals to his teller. For one
thing, however, Penton deserved credit: he was the most industrious
signer of names that ever escaped jail for forgery. He even initialed
items on the general ledger balance-sheet, where initials were
ridiculous, to give the impression that he had checked the work.
For the first week in February the boys worked every night. Henty's
face kept its color, but Nelson began to look like Filter. The
ledger-keeper plodded so slowly and fondled his ledger so tenderly, his
pasty face did no worse than remain pasty. There was new vim for him
in every new account opened. He knew the names of every man, woman and
child in his ledger. He might be moved away any time, and all his
special knowledge would become useless to him--Filter knew that--but he
did not live in his ledger from a sense of duty: he just loved
clerically killing time. He was too lazy or too unoriginal to think,
so he kept his mind occupied with insignificant things, and made an
ideal clerk.
It was afternoon, toward the end of a certain week in February. Henty
had been down to a grain elevator at the station with a draft. It
usually took him a long time to deliver a draft in that direction,
because Hilda Munn lived out there; but this day he came back rapidly
and rushed excitedly up to the teller's box.
"Nelson!" he whispered ominously, tapping the cage door.
Evan turned around and smiled at the expression of A. P.'s face.
"What's the matter, Henty?"
Filter had foregone the temptation to make an entry, and stood
listening and watching.
"It's Penton. He's drunk again. He took the 3.30 train south."
"Was he alone?"
"Yes."
Immediately Evan went and found Mrs. Penton. She was nursing the white
poodles. They nearly went mad when a stranger entered the domain of
their mistress.
"Mrs. Penton," said the teller, "do you know where Mr. Penton is?"
She paled at once. Evan could see that she lived in dread of her
husband's habit, and was on the watch for outbreaks.
"Has anything happened, Mr. Nelson?" she asked, painfully.
"Yes. He's gone on the southbound."
"To Toronto!" she cried. "Was he intoxicated?"
"Yes."
The teller gazed on her in pity. After she had stared at him a while
her eyes saw sympathy and understanding, and she cried. He assured her
the work at the office would not be neglected, and promised to forge
Penton's name to the daily cash-statement so as to keep the matter a
secret from head office. She clutched his shoulders and sobbed against
them. His heart ached for her, and he promised to help Penton all he
could.
"Oh, Mr. Nelson," she stammered, wiping her cheeks, "if only Pen were
like--like you!"
Then she wept again. The spell over, she inquired about the trains and
found she could get to Toronto in the evening.
"I know where to find him," she said. "We lived in Toronto a year.
Mr. Nelson, you can't imagine how I have suffered through it all. When
I married Pen I knew he took an occasional glass, but I didn't dream
that he was a drunkard."
"Is it as bad as that, Mrs. Penton?"
"It is as bad as it can be." She spoke excitedly. "I have known him
to spend fifty dollars in one night, when he was only making nine
hundred dollars a year. (We got married by special influence.) It
just seems as though something draws him toward a debauch every little
while. I'm afraid this small town will be our ruination."
Evan tried to make her load lighter and, in a degree, succeeded. There
is no burden so heavy that true sympathy will not budge it a little.
Mrs. Penton coaxed him to have tea with her; preparing it, she said,
would occupy her mind. She couldn't bear to stay alone. The teller
pretended to have pleasure in accepting her invitation. There was a
certain amount of novelty in eating alone at a table with a strange
young woman. Still, the circumstances were not very romantic.
Neither were the circumstances surrounding Penton's return. He
contrived to get away from his wife in Toronto and board a train for
Banfield. He arrived several hours ahead of her, and advertised
himself all over town as something to be pitied. This was two days
after his drunken flight. When Mrs. Penton came on the scene the
manager was standing helplessly before the staff, crying like a bruised
youngster. Evan sat up all night with him, studying the pathos and
humor of delirium tremens. The drink demon is a tragic devil, but he
has fits of fun.
For days the manager could not sign his name. The teller did it for
him, feeling as he did so that he was supporting a rotten structure
that must soon fall. He did not picture himself among the debris,
however.