My Financial Career - Stephen Leacock
When I go into a bank I get rattled. The clerks rattle me; the wickets rattle me; the sight of the money rattles me; everything rattles me.
The moment I cross the threshold of a bank and
attempt to transact business there, I
become an irresponsible idiot.
I knew this beforehand, but my salary had been
raised to fifty dollars a month and I
felt that the bank was the only place for
it.
So I shambled in and looked timidly round at the
clerks. I had an idea that a person about
to open an account must needs consult the
manager. I went up to a wicket marked "Accountant."
The accountant was a tall, cool devil. The very
sight of him rattled me. My voice was sepulchral.
"Can I see the manager?" I said, and
added solemnly, "alone." I
don't know why I said "alone."
"Certainly," said the accountant, and
fetched him.
The manager was a grave, calm man. I held my
fifty-six dollars clutched in a crumpled
ball in my pocket.
"Are you the manager?" I said. God
knows I didn't doubt it.
"Yes," he said.
"Can I see you," I asked,
"alone?" I didn't want to say "alone"
again, but without it the thing seemed self-evident.
The manager looked at me in some alarm. He felt
that I had an awful secret to reveal.
"Come in here," he said, and led the
way to a private room. He turned the key
in the lock. "We are safe from
interruption here," he said; "sit down."
We both sat down and looked at each other. I
found no voice to speak.
"You are one of Pinkerton's men, I
presume," he said.
He had gathered from my mysterious manner that I
was a detective. I knew what he was
thinking, and it made me worse.
"No, not from Pinkerton's," I said,
seeming to imply that I came from a rival
agency.
"To tell the truth," I went on, as if
I had been prompted to lie about
it," I am not a detective at all. I have come to open an account. I intend to keep all my money in this bank."
The manager looked relieved but still serious;
he concluded now that I was a son of
Baron Rothschild or a young Gould.
"A large account, I suppose," he said.
"Fairly large," I whispered. "I
propose to deposit fifty-six dollars now
and fifty dollars a month regularly."
The manager got up and opened the door. He
called to the accountant.
"Mr. Montgomery," he said unkindly
loud, "this gentleman is opening an
account, he will deposit fifty-six dollars. Good morning."
I rose.
A big iron door stood open at the side of the
room.
"Good morning," I said, and stepped
into the safe.
"Come out," said the manager coldly,
and showed me the other way.
I went up to the accountant's wicket and poked
the ball of money at him with a quick
convulsive movement as if I were doing a
conjuring trick. My face was ghastly
pale.
"Here," I said, "deposit
it." The tone of the words seemed to
mean, "Let us do this painful thing while the fit is on us."
He took the money and gave it to another clerk.
He made me write the sum on a slip and sign my
name in a book. I no longer knew what I
was doing. The bank swam before my eyes.
"Is it deposited?" I asked in a
hollow, vibrating voice.
"It is," said the accountant.
"Then I want to draw a cheque."
My idea was to draw out six dollars of it for
present use. Someone gave me a cheque book
through a wicket and someone else began
telling me how to write it out. The people
in the bank had the impression that I was an invalid millionaire. I wrote something on the cheque and thrust it in at the clerk. He looked at it.
"What! are you drawing it all out
again?" he asked in surprise. Then I
realized that I had written fifty-six instead
of six. I was too far gone to reason now. I had a feeling that it was impossible to explain the thing. All the clerks had stopped writing to look at me.
Reckless with misery, I made a plunge.
"Yes, the whole thing."
"You withdraw your money from the bank?"
"Every cent of it."
"Are you not going to deposit any
more?" said the clerk, astonished.
"Never."
An idiot hope struck me that they might think
something had insulted me while I was
writing the cheque and that I had changed
my mind. I made a wretched attempt to look like
a man with a fearfully quick temper.
The clerk prepared to pay the money.
"How will you have it?" he said.
"What?"
"How will you have it?"
"Oh"--I caught his meaning and
answered without even trying to
think--"in fifties."
He gave me a fifty-dollar bill.
"And the six?" he asked dryly.
"In sixes," I said.
He gave it me and I rushed out.
As the big door swung behind me I caught the
echo of a roar of laughter that went up
to the ceiling of the bank. Since then I
bank no more. I keep my money in cash in my trousers pocket and my savings in silver dollars in a sock.
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