ne, though it be to another's
benefit almost entirely: Evan knew he could not work so hard without
accomplishing something. He did accomplish something--for the bank.

Evan Nelson was wearing himself out, body and brain, for much less than
a living wage. The experience he got was no longer of value to him;
every day's work was a repetition of the previous day's work. He had
no time for study or advancement of any sort. For what then was he
working?--the salary. Evan did not realize it, but, he worked night
and day for that seven or eight dollars per week. It was all he got,
therefore it alone must have been his reward. And year after year in
the bank, it would be the same way. If the business did not keep faith
with him, if it did not reward him according to his works, in 1907,
would it do so in 1908 or 1912? No; it would keep up its policy of
delusion and perpetuate for ever and ever its vain promises. Then,
some day, it could, with impunity, turn on him and break him.

"Good morning, Nelson," said Key, coming to call; "what time did you
get balanced last night?"

"I had a first shot," replied Nelson.

"Hooray!" cried Key.

"At ten o'clock," added Evan, grinning. "I couldn't get things rounded
up for a trial till then."

"Oh," said Key, rubbing his chin. "They ought to give you some return
work.... How are you feeling these days?"

"Just average," answered Evan; "I had to cut out the cigarettes. I
never smoked more than three or four a day at the most, but I find that
I have fewer headaches when I leave them alone."

"Fewer headaches," repeated Key, in his peculiar way.

Evan smiled, and dived into the calling, drawing the time-worn battered
old Key in with him. After a while the little man said:

"I suppose you count those headaches part of the game."

"Yes," and another chestnut rolled to the floor, "every business has
its drawbacks."

"And every horse has its hold-backs," said Key, wondering whether it
would sound like a joke or a child-speech. When it seemed to be lost
on Evan, he corrected: "I meant 'every jackass.'"

"I see," returned the cash-bookman, "you think I'm a jackass for
letting the bank hold me back."

"Yep!"

"So does Mr. Robb."

Key rested his blue pencil on an amount and looked across at Evan.

"You think we're soreheads, don't you, Nelson? Maybe we are. But let
me ask you something. Supposing you had worked twenty years in the
bank, and then they gave you, w