"Oh, girls," she said, "do you know what that dirty little cat, Edith...."
We wouldn't have minded so much if we had been able to catch the rest of it, but she lowered her voice, their heads all drew together, and we were left to beat our forehead against the brass grating in impotent rage. We also thumped on the desk with the end of our cane. They heard us—you could hear us two blocks away—but they heeded not.
Finally, the only man in sight came out of the teller's cage—if we worked in a bank these days, we also would wish to be kept in a cage. We would feel much safer that way. He was a comparatively young man but he looked harassed and worn. He came up to the wicket, and we pointed to our cheque—we were too hoarse to speak. He picked it up.
"Say, would some of you ladies kindly consent to attend to this?" he asked in an O-my-gawd tone of voice. It was the voice of a man who had suffered much and saw no relief in sight.
Claire came back, still humming. Her manner indicated that she despised us both. The Paying Teller—at least, that was the name on his cage—went into the big vault in the back of the office. Then he returned.
"Have you changed your combination, Miss Jenkins," he asked curtly, "or do you wish me to do it for you?"
Her combination—great heavens! We gasped and the purple flood of embarrassment mantled our particularly open countenance. But Claire was perfectly cool.
"Thanks," she said without the quiver of an eyelid, "but I want to get used to doing it myself."
She handed us our cheque and then she disappeared into the vault. No wonder they have big iron doors on those things!
