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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
2
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."
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