e not around when I remembered what it was that bothered me.
Sam's been here several months. They took his job away from him
because of letters Alfy wrote."

Nelson could hardly believe it.

"The calf," he muttered. "What does Robb think about it?"

"Oh, he doesn't say much. He works like a nigger, all but about two
days a month--when he goes on a tear. Been hitting the can a lot
lately."

"I don't wonder," said Evan; "what has he to live for?"

He had something, though, as every man has--his self-respect. But one
sometimes loses that when others do not attribute it to him.

Evan had never felt more incompetent than when Watson asked him to take
out a balance. He could just as easily have "taken out" a degree at
the Toronto University. While he fretted his still pounding head, Bill
rode the round-up of registers, supplementaries and totals. Long drawn
out exclamations reverberated in whatever corner of the office he
happened to be searching.

"Teller's book," he shouted behind the paying teller; "come on, Sid."

The poor teller was short in his cash. Bundles were piled almost to
the top of the cage; he snatched them up one by one and ran through
them. He had a sore hand, too; it had been poisoned by infectious
money. Two weeks later, when the teller had returned from sick-leave,
head office refused to pay his doctor's bill, insinuating that the
poison might be something else!

"Get out of here, you wolf," yelled the teller; "you're more ----
bother than ----"

"I'm sorry for you, old kid," interrupted Watson, laughing; "give us
your book, I'll add it up and maybe find your difference."

Sid Levison hesitated, picked his book up quietly, and faced Watson
with:

"You're a yard wide, Bill. I wish we had more of you around here. I
got in $50,000 in parcels this afternoon and Charon wouldn't send any
relief. Gee, but I'm tired, and my hand pains infernally."

He yawned so widely his glasses fell off. Relieved of them, his face
looked peaked and his eyes inflamed and weary.

"Meet Mr. Nelson from Banfield, Mr. Levison."

"How are you?" said the teller, offering his hand; "used to work there
myself, years ago."

Then he turned to his money.

"How long has he been in the bank?" Evan asked Watson.

"About ten or twelve years, I think."

"He should be a manager by now."

"Sure," said Bill, "I could handle an easy chair myself for that
matter. There are at least ten clerks in this office w