Shortly after, Al Williams, who was John's next in rank, came in; but
I did not notice his greeting as I was busy over by the window filing
checks. Then, at nine, we opened up, and the regular routine of work
began.
Nine-thirty was my time for starting off with the morning's collections,
drafts on tradespeople, post-office orders, protested checks and the
like. I was very anxious that the president should arrive before I
left, for I was particularly curious to see how John would take his
congratulations, and in what spirit they would be offered.
John had entered the bank as clerk when the president was teller—almost
twenty years ago—and had worked under him ever since. Both men at first
sight impressed one as of a type very common in this bustling country of
ours. Small, nervous men, with light, drooping mustaches, and excitable
ways, they both were. To each of them the touch of silver, or the smell
of dirty bills, or the holding of a pen between the fingers was but
the signal for a certain set of reactions on the accuracy of which his
claim to usefulness in this world depended. Mere machines one might call
them both, but there was a vast difference between them nevertheless.
For, while John's nervousness was the nervousness of dissipated force,
the president's was that of concentrated alertness and precision and
celerity. John was a very poor machine, indeed, and as like as not to go
wrong and become tangled up in his own mechanism. Habinger, on the other
hand, was a very perfect one, and it was a saying in the bank that he
could foot a column with every wink of his eye. His every pen-stroke,
too, was an ultimatum, and stood on the books as it was first written,
without blot or erasure.
So John (who had no other standards to measure men by but those of
the ledger and the time-lock) had made an idol of the president. In
his worship he was not only sincere and fervent, but entirely without
jealousy; for whatever egotism he might have had to start with must
long ago have been knocked out of him by the successions of selfish and
ambitious clerks he had seen pass beyond and above him; and, as Bill
had so cruelly hinted, by his ten years of unfruitful married life.
It was, then, a real pleasure for John, on days when business was
rushing, to have Habinger unceremoniously shove him aside at the
counter, and in fifteen minutes dispose of a long row of customers whom
the hapless teller had suffered to gather there.
At these times John would stand behind the president, and look over
his shoulder with wonder like a little child's on his face; and when
the work was finished, his "Thank you, sir; thank you!" was uttered in
a tone of glad gratitude quite unalloyed, even by the consciousness of
Bill's sneering whispers at his back, or by the sly smile of the next
depositor, as he handed over his bills and checks.
So, as I said, I wished greatly to be in the bank when the president
came; and with this purpose I lingered a moment over my time at the
check-file, pretending to be very much occupied.
John's eye this morning, however, was as sharp as Habinger's; and, as
the pointer of the clock above his head marked five minutes past the
half hour, he called out brusquely,
"Hi, Jimmy! Time you were gone; and a heavy clearing this morning, too,
so you want to be back early."
His manner was authoritative, and I rose hastily, and reluctantly
commenced sorting out my collections and memoranda. But just then
Habinger came in, and with a quick brush of my arm, I swept my papers
on the floor directly behind John.
I don't know whether John fathomed my design or not; but he was down
by me on the floor in an instant; and before I had touched one of them,
the papers were gathered up and stuffed into my pocket-book.
"Now, off with you!" he cried, and gave me a shove, and then turning,
met the president's outstretched hand.
[Illustration: Ted comfortably settled himself.—Page 447.]
"Mr. Makeator," the latter began, and this was all I heard, for I was
heartily ashamed of my impertinence.
However, those two words and the glance I could not help throwing back
were enough. John's face was flushed again, but this time with joy and
pride; for never before had the president thus publicly called him by
his last name. Indeed, of all the shrewd things Habinger ever said, I
believe this was the shrewdest, and I would have given Bill ten to one
on that bet had I thought he would take it.
I made a mess of my work that morning I know—was fined two dollars at
the clearing for a wrong subtraction; forgot to call for a couple of
drafts I had left at Shan's—the liquor dealer—the day before; mislaid a
registered letter; and entered Boston remittances in the New York book.
My thoughts while out of the bank were on John, and while in the bank
my eyes were on no one else.
Indeed, there was a fascination in watching the little teller work.
He never made more mistakes, perhaps, in his life; but he detected
every one of them instantly. He had squeezed his sponges dry in two
hours, and, not thinking to have me moisten them again, simply wet his
fingers in his mouth, and thumbed his bills and scraped his silver all
unconscious of any inconvenience.
He was perpetually on the go, dabbling in everyone else's work, but
never losing his head. He ordered us around as if he were president
and directors all in one. Once, I recollect, when a ten-dollar roll of
quarters fell and split on the floor, he told Bill peremptorily to pick
them up, without so much as a "please," or turning around to see if he
were obeyed—which he was, and promptly, too.
As for Bill, at first he simply sat dumfounded on his stool, and watched
John open-mouthed. But John found him out in a jiffy, tossed him a
handful of pass-books, which Bill took without a remark and proceeded
to balance forthwith.
John's conversation over the counter was of a line with his actions.
[Illustration: John would stand behind the president.—Page 450.]
"Mornin', Mr. Bemis, mornin'! Hot day? Yes, I should say so. Good
deposit this morning. Business picking up? Yes?—Eh?—Ah.—Yes!—yes,
thanks, sir! yes, doin' splendid sir, splendid!—Coughlin to pitch this
afternoon?—yes, going to call her Margaret, sir—my wife's name—Ah,
this check here, sir? Call & Co. $123.75. Well—Eh—Hi, Jim!" (this in
a whisper to me, and handing me the doubtful check under the counter).
"Telephone down to the 'Third' and see if that's good—yes, ten pounds
seven ounces, sir. Let's see, $443 in bills I make it only."
Then, as I came back from the telephone, "All right, Mr. Bemis.
Wanted to make sure, you know; $123.75? Born at half-past two exactly.
Good-morning——
"But, Mr. Bemis! _Oh_, Mr. Bemis! Wait a moment, please. Forgot to
indorse this, I guess? Yes? All right. Feeling fine myself, sir—first
rate. Yes. Good-morning."