I
I was early down at the bank that morning, as the day promised to be
a sweltering one, and a little extra work in the cool of the forenoon
would save a deal of discomfort later on.
So, by half-past eight, when Ted Lummis, the book-keeper, and Bill Ryan,
who balanced pass-books and ran the appendix ledger, arrived, I had the
safe open, and their ledgers, with fresh blotters, laid out ready for
them on their desks.
But, as usual, they preferred to loiter and chat awhile in the
president's office. After a few words to me, therefore, Ted comfortably
settled himself in the big desk-chair, lit a cigarette, and commenced
unfolding the morning paper. Bill, as his custom was, took up a post by
the window and watched the loafers on the street corner.
I was wetting the teller's sponges at the sink, and speculating how
long his mistakes in cash would keep us after hours that afternoon,
when a great guffaw broke out in the office. I recognized the voice as
Ted's, and, squeezing my sponges into their dishes, hurried into the
banking-room, slopping a trail of water on the floor behind me.
From there I could see the backs of the two fellows, still shaking with
laughter, bent over the president's desk, on which the open paper was
spread.
"You didn't know he was going to have one?" Ted was saying, in a tone of
superiority to which he apparently considered the possibility of asking
this question entitled him.
"No. How should I?" replied Bill, evidently piqued; and then added, by
way of subterfuge, "what's he or his family to me?"
When Bill spoke in this way it was pretty certain he was talking about
John Makeator, our teller.
"Well," pressed the other, bound on making his point, "you knew he
wouldn't take a vacation this summer. What did you suppose that was
for?"
"Why? Good Lord, isn't he stingy enough?"
"Perhaps he wanted the additional salary to help pay for his mistakes
in cash," I suggested, scarcely less uncharitably, but with the memory
of yesterday's three hours' hunt for a balance rising again in my mind.
"_He_ is John, I presume," I went on, as the others turned around; "but
what's up with him, Ted? What's he 'got?'"
"'Got!' You fellows are as blind as if you were locked up in the vault.
'Got!' Why, a baby, of course, Jim!"
Ted, with difficulty, repressed his emotions, reckoning, doubtless, on a
more dramatic effect if my outburst should come unaccompanied. However,
at the moment, the news struck me in quite other than a laughable light;
and I must have disappointed Ted, for I only said:
"Well, it's mighty funny; but I'm sure we ought to be glad for poor old
John."
Ted, who at heart is the kindest fellow in the world, instantly sobered.
"Glad, why, of course, I'm glad, Jim! But——"
"You'll be damn glad, then, at three o'clock this afternoon," broke in
Bill, testily, seeing the turn the conversation was taking. "Yesterday
he kept us here till after seven; last night he had a baby, and
to-day—oh, Lord! Well, stay and talk about it if you want to; and make
out to rejoice with him when he comes in. I'm going to work," and he
walked off irritably to his desk in the other room.
Ted looked after him and smiled.
"He hasn't forgiven John for speaking to Habinger about him the other
day." Habinger was the president.
"John was right," I said. "Bill had no business to meddle with his cash,
even if John is slow in counting it."
"Yes," assented Ted; and then he laughed again, so openly and frankly
this time, that the merely comic element in the news came over me
irresistibly, and I could not help joining him.
"Mr. Young!" shouted Bill from his desk, where he was making a show of
sorting pass-books, but, in reality, was watching the door, so as to be
the first to announce John's arrival. He then slipped to the teller's
counter, pressed the button which springs the electric lock, and Mr.
Young, the cashier, came in.
"Well, Mr. Young," asked Bill, "what time is John going to let us out
to-day?" The question was put, even before the door had shut behind the
cashier. The idea of working late into the evening was pleasanter to
Bill than he would have cared to admit, or, perhaps, realized.
"Hello, Bill! Good-morning, Ted!—Oh, yes! I thought you'd have heard
the news. And we'll have to make Margaret—that's her name—a present. I
saw John early this morning. He'll be down soon, too."
The cashier briskly pushed the little swing door of the office, and came
in to Ted and me. He was going to say something more, but, noticing that
our looks were turned across to Bill, glanced over that way himself,
and comprehending the situation quickly, cried good naturedly:
"I wouldn't tease him too much about it when he comes, Bill. He's
sensitive, you know. Besides, it's his first one——"
"Well, it was time I hope," was the contemptible retort, which put into
spiteful, bitter form the idea which to the rest of us was only reason
for special satisfaction.
As Bill took up his perch again, the cashier walked into the banking
room, and Ted and I followed him. Mr. Young sat down at a table and
inspected the morning's mail, which I cut open for him.
"Oh, yes, he'll be down this morning," he began, as he rapidly and
keenly went through envelope after envelope. "Ah, here's a draft on
Potter, Jim—yes, his wife is doing nicely. No danger at all—Another on
Smith and Weston, $2,600. Means a sweat for you, and don't——"
"We'll all sweat enough before the day's over," came from Bill.
"Look here, old man," laughed the cashier, with a sharp knitting of
his brows, however; "I'll bet you half a dozen cigars" (two-fers were
a stock wager among us) "that John makes fewer mistakes in cash to-day
than you."
"And you only affect cash in the clearings," put in Ted.
"Don't want to bet," was the surly, almost inaudible response, and Bill
wheeled his stool about again, and began making perfunctory scratches
with his pen, the corner of his eye all the while on the door.
"John!" he cried suddenly in the tone of a look-out on board a
man-of-war off a hostile harbor.
We all turned about and faced the door. Ted hastily folded up the
morning paper, which was still in his hand, and put it behind him. Mr.
Young gathered his letters into a pile before him and stood up, and Bill
left his station, and took up a position back of the rest of us where
he could spy without seeming to be interested.
"With his wheel polished clean, and a new pair of stockings," he
snickered, peering, on tiptoe, over my shoulder.
This time no one offered to press the electric button, so John had to
use his key. We could hear it click some time on the metal outside,
before the bolt shot.
However, John was the first to speak as he entered. His voice was even
higher than ordinary and more forced; but there was a clear ring to it,
and it did not waver.
"Mornin', George," he said, simply, and then turned his attention to
getting his wheel into the passage.
"Hello, John!" cried the cashier, cheerily. "Coming out to congratulate
you again. How's everything?"
"Fine, George, fine!" answered the latter, straightening up to his full
height, and with a firmer snap in his voice than ever.
[Illustration: Bill Ryan.]
"Blacked his shoes," muttered Bill, turning away and suppressing a grin.
"Oh, Lord! and a clean shave, too."
By this time the teller and the cashier had stopped hand-shaking, and
the latter was pushing John in through the office door toward us.
"The rest of the fellows want to shake hands with you, John," said he,
slapping the disconcerted father on the back.
This was John's ordeal. Two emotions were visibly struggling in him.
He knew perfectly, poor fellow, his incompetence, and the consequent
slight estimate in which we (being only plodding accountants, with no
very exalted criterion to judge men by) held him. Nevertheless, this
morning it must have been plain to him a new factor had entered into
his position among us—one, moreover, which, quite irrespective of his
ability or inefficiency as a commercial automaton, entitled him to a
positive measure of respect from us. Diffident, however, and totally
lacking in self-confidence as he was, how was he to break through the
old barriers of contempt and derision which we held out against him, and
demand of us, and enforce from us the payment of this new obligation?
It was a task, truly, which seemed to require more courage and power
over others than the little man possessed, and very much depended on
an initial success. One could see that he felt this himself; for as he
walked toward us (his knees perceptibly shaking, in spite of the unusual
length of his strides) he shifted his eyes from side to side; and when
they did rest on one of us for a moment, there was in their weak, watery
blue an appeal rather than a command.
Ted was the first to meet him. He gripped his hand hard and cordially,
and looked straight into his face.
"Mighty glad to hear it, John," he said.
John flushed, and his eyes brightened and he held on fast.
"Thanks, Ted, thanks!" he stammered, much moved.
But, as their hands parted, Ted smiled. It was not meant unkindly; but
Ted, who was a cocky, self-assured chap, and something of a sport, too,
never seemed able to look seriously at the affair for more than a second
at a time.
John's courage, which had begun to rise, left him instantly; and he
quite lost his self-control. He was white as he took the limp hand Bill
stretched out to him.
"Congratulate you, John," the latter said, frigidly, and the "Thanks,
Bill, thanks," of the reply was all of a tremble.
Suddenly, however, a new feeling seemed to come over John, and this was
indignation—indignation at himself, and anger at the man before him. He
reddened, and stood erect again, and dropped Bill's hand; and, without
a word, turned to me.
I don't recollect what I said to John. Perhaps I said nothing. I
remember only I was thinking, "You'd have lost that bet, Bill, if you'd
taken it."