"I guess I'll go now," he said. "It's just as convenient for me to get
out now as--"
"I can't understand that 'convenient' business," broke in Jenkins,
wrinkling his brow. "Well, good luck, Bingle. I'm sorry."
Sixty wistful, sympathetic eyes followed Mr. Bingle as he made his way
out to the passage. The word had gone 'round that "old Bingy" was to
get the sack, and every one was saying to himself that if they
discharged a man like Bingle for being late it wouldn't be safe for
any one to transgress for even the tiniest fraction of an instant.
Half-way down the narrow aisle leading to the offices, Mr. Bingle
stopped to wipe his brow and to pull himself together for the coming
ordeal. A high-and-mighty young man who had been elevated from a
clerkship to the post of third assistant foreign teller, and who no
longer deemed it proper to associate with his erstwhile companions in
the "galleys," emerged from his cage and, coming abruptly upon the
shivering bookkeeper, blinked uncertainly for a moment and then said
in what was unmistakably a polite and even respectful tone:
"Good morning, Mr.
Pages:
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96