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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
3
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
chequebook
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.
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