ledger. In the space of a week he had developed a singularly profane vocabulary. Probably the contiguity of Watson had something to do with it. He was under the special tutelage of Watson, and the handling he received was anything but gentle. It surely did require patience to instill anything into that head of Porter's. His instructor would stand over him and tell him in a dozen words just exactly what entries to make in a customer's passbook. Porter would stare into oblivion during the lesson and when it was done make a dab at his ink-pot, enter up a cheque as credit, cross it out and make it a debit, then reverse the entry—all before Watson could interfere. The Bonehead was not slow; in fact, he was too rapid—but his swiftness was a serious detriment since the direction taken was usually wrong. Porter acted on impulses, and they seemed destined forever to be senseless. A swift inspiration came to him, he made a slash with his heavily inked pen, there was a blot, a figure with heavy lines drawn crookedly through it, an exclamation of despair—and then the blank look. The vacant expression seemed to be behind all his woes, and an empty mind was undoubtedly behind that.

"You missed your calling, Port," said Bill Watson on one occasion; "you should have been a sign painter. Those aren't figures you are making, you know."

Perry looked hopelessly at his work and then into the ledger keeper's face. Watson indulged in a spasm of mirth.

"I can hardly wait till balance day," he stammered, with difficulty controlling himself; "that nut of yours will crack—and I don't think there'll be enough kernel to excite a squirrel."

"Aw, cut it out and show me this," grumbled the savings-man.

"Yes," interrupted the teller, in his mandatory way, "don't be kidding him all the time, Watson."

The ledger keeper looked at Castle through the wire of the cage.

"Oh, hello, Clarice," he said, "when did you get back?"

The teller reddened, but made no reply. He was not accustomed to impudence, for he was a near relative of Inspector Castle's. This time, though, he could not find words to support his dignity, so he remained silent.

Evan heard him speaking to the manager about it, later.

"I simply won't stand it, Mr. Robb," he was saying; "they've got to show respect."

"Well, you know, Alf," said the manager carelessly, "they're only boys. Don't be too hard on them.... By the way, how do you like Nelson?"

"Oh, he's no worse than the general run," replied Castle impatiently; "I suppose he'll get there in time."

"Yes," said Robb, reflectively, "like the rest of us.... You know, I rather like the boy; he seems anxious to do his best."

Castle made no reply, but left the manager's office suddenly, as though disgusted at not having found satisfaction there. The manager sighed, deeply enough for Evan to hear, and murmured audibly:

"Mollycoddles, all of us!"

With that he slammed down his desk-top and reached for his hat with one hand and a half-smoked cigar with the other. When the front door closed behind him Watson and Perry engaged in a rough-and-tumble. A heavy ruler rolled to the floor with a bang, Porter's big boot struck a fixture, and various other accidents contributed to the hubbub.

"My ——, cut it out!" shrieked the helpless teller, glowing with wrath.

Watson made a grab for him, but he rushed into his cage and locked the door. The combatants were puffing too hard to speak, or one of them at least would probably have vented some sarcasm. Evan eyed the proceedings approvingly; it was a relief to witness a little disorder where the orderly teller-accountant ruled. Porter, with all his boneheadedness, was a match for any man in the office, including the manager, when it came to the primitive way of "managing" affairs; Evan was compelled to admire his physique and the tenacity with which he clung to an opponent. After all "the porter" possessed certain qualities not to be despised. But Watson hit the point uppermost in Nelson's mind.

"Port," he said gasping, "if you would wrestle with your job as gallantly as you do with an antagonist you'd soon be chief inspector."

Perry grinned.

"Come on, Bill," he coaxed, "put me next to this dope."

Bill bent over him and laid down the law. Evan finished his mail. The teller brushed the office from him with a whisk, and, adjusting his tie and hat to a nicety, walked out into the streets to be admired by the female population of Mt. Alban.

An hour later the "swipe" was diligently dusting the front office, his back to the door, when someone entered the bank. Thinking it was Porter he did not look up, but went on with his work. There was a sickening dusty smell in the office: the aftermath of a broom.

"Hello, there," said Robb; "do you work all the time, Nelson?"

Evan looked up with an apologetic smile, and, hurriedly dusting the manager's chair, made as though to leave the sanctum.

"Don't run away, my boy," said the manager; "I came in on purpose to see you. Sit down."

The junior obeyed.

"How do you like banking by this time?"

"Pretty well, sir, thank you," said Evan timidly.

Mr. Robb looked at him disconcertingly during a pause.

"Who advised you to join a bank staff, Nelson?" he asked, slowly.

"It was my own idea, Mr. Robb. I felt as though I had gone to school long enough at my father's expense. He earns his bread hard and I began to feel it was up to me to do something for myself."

"Oh, I see," said the manager, pensively. Again he was silent.

"Did you say you wanted to see me about something?" ventured the new junior.

"Well—I—I was just wondering, Nelson, if you had taken up with the bank just as a sort of notion, and if you had I was going to discourage you."

"Don't you think it's a good business, Mr. Robb?"

"Sure—sure—it's all right. That is, for certain ones. You'll probably be quitting it when you get older."

Evan did not reply immediately. He was trying to figure out what the manager meant.

"I hope I'll get along well," he said, finally.

"I hope so, Nelson; you deserve it; I'll do all I can for you. But the bank is rather uncertain, you know. We are all—well, more or less servants. Even I get my call-downs regularly. You didn't know that, eh? Well, you'll get wise to a whole lot of things as time goes on. However, I don't want to discourage you. Do your best wherever you are."

Mr. Robb puffed his cigar into life before continuing.

"Don't take things too seriously, though. Now Mr. Castle, for instance—anything he says just swallow it with a few grains of salt. He's got bank blue-blood in his veins, you know. And this sweeping and dusting—don't be so particular. You should be out playing ball or tennis. I must get a woman to clean up from now on. The last manager here started this business, but I'm going to stop it. I didn't say anything while Perry was on the job because it helped break him in to the habit of discipline—but you don't need a schoolmaster; in fact, you need a sporting coach.... Here, do you smoke?"

Evan declined the cigar with thanks.

"You're right," said Robb, "it's a poor habit.... Was there nothing in your home town that attracted you?" he asked suddenly.

"What do you mean—a business?"

"Yes."

"No, sir. There doesn't seem to be anything so good as the bank for a young fellow."

"That's right," smiled the manager; "there doesn't seem to be. The only thing some people in this country can see is the bank."

The junior looked surprised. Robb smiled satirically.

"A little of it won't do you any harm though, Nelson. Stay with it for a while, since you have left school for good, and something else will come along.... How do you like your boarding-house?"

"All right, sir."

When the manager had gone Nelson sat submerged in thought. He came to the conclusion that Mr. Robb had "some kick coming" or he would not give the banking business such