grouchy chap looked at the Banfield man and said:

"Say, Nibs, the bank doesn't pay us to instruct greenhorns; it only
pays us to get through this dope you see here, and half pay at that."

Evan was offended; one of Henty's blushes came to his cheeks.

"I don't think anything you could teach a fellow would be worth much
anyway," he replied; and the teller next door stopped in the middle of
a heavy deposit of putrid money to laugh and remark:

"Strike one for Banfield."

It seemed to Evan that he was going through

juniorship days again. Nobody appeared to have any respect for him.
Still, as far as that was concerned, nobody had any respect for
anybody. He consoled himself with this observation.

What was called "noon hour" came anywhere between noon and three
o'clock. The tellers bolted their portion of food with monied hands,
stopping between bites to serve a customer. The ledger-keepers ate
with their backs to the wicket, turning around nervously every time
anyone rustled a slip of paper or made sounds like a pass-book on the
ledge. The "C" men and one or two others were privileged to eat in the
basement, but when one was balanced another wasn't, and as a balance
aided digestion and the man ahead had not the time to wait for the one
behind, they usually ate alone. Sometimes, by particularly good
management, several of the boys got together for five minutes below and
scuffled; but the fun was short-lived.

Evan ate his hand-out on an old lounge in the furnace-room. It was for
all the world like a prison cell. Outside, the city was bright and
wonderful; in the dark, chill office and gloomier cellar there was but
one factor, one idea--Work.

The Banfield teller felt singularly alone in that basement, eating a
cheese sandwich. The boys were so engrossed in their own affairs they
had no time for welcoming new men. Aside from the two ledger-keepers
and the two "C" men, the boys were almost strangers to each other. The
Banfield man would have to learn, like the others, to affiliate with a
book. He wondered, as he sat in the basement alone, how long it would
take him. He speculated on the hit Filter would make in that soulless,
endless city-office swirl.

The morning had been confusing to the new man, but the afternoon was
chaotic. He stood beside Watson, trying to get the multitudinous
cash-book entries through his head, until he was played out. He yawned
repeatedly and his head pained ominously. T