Literary Lapses

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.