THE DAY OF RECKONING

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 4, 26 March 1927, Page 22 (Supplement)

THE DAY OF RECKONING

BANK BALANCE TIME A “PLUTO-CLERK’S” LAMENT Written for THE SUN. “Balance Day,” piped the postage boy, scarcely comprehending the significance of the term. “Balance day once again,” sighed the ledger-keeper, only too fully realising its import. “Balance day,” groaned the accountant, predicting an all-night session. “Balance day—there’s but few more for me, thank heaven,” growled the manager. “Balance day,” said the man in the street, and not a care cared he. It was three o’clock in the afternoon of the 31st. With a clang that resounded throughout the banking chamber, the oaken doors were barred to the public. Perspiring clerks feverishly divested themselves of coats and vests, and

with those garments, the impeccable forbearance and smiling urbanity, which is so strangely misunderstood by the dear old lady who somehow gets in “after hours” and demands cash for her crossed cheque. Fingers working convulsively, brows contracted, amid the rattlfe of adding machines, the clink of other people’s cash, and the swish, swish of ledgers, they toil, these clerks. Each doing his vague bit, cogs in a machine, and here and there a crank, they are striving for one goal; just to inform you and me, sir, how much “per cent.” the machine will disgorge this March. It is 10 o’clock on the evening of the 31st. The pallor of a March afternoon has given place to the glare of a hundred brilliant lights. Nearly all the “cogs” have “balanced.” They have gone home. Those who have not balanced have not gone home. Amongst them is one Brown, quite unbalanced. That is to say, his ledger is fourpence “out,” and himself but moderately sane. Hungry and distracted, Brown is seeking four pennies. True, his purse contained approximately that sum, but of what avail? Weary and worn, voto non valeo, he

drooped over his task, and, dozing in peace, he dreamed of himself; With fingers inky and blue, With eyelids heavy and red, A bank clerk sat—unbankerly clad, Longing for home and bed. Add—add—add ! In trousers and braces and shirt, And still with a dolorous voice and sad. His curses are pointed and curt. Add—add—add! Till the brain begins to swim; Add—add—add! Till the eyes are heavy and dim, Pence and shillings and pounds, Pounds and shillings and pence, Till over his labour he falls asleep, And considers it “over the fence.” O! Directors with brothers dear, O! Directors with mothers and wives, It is not ledgers you’re wearing out, But bank clerks’ miserable lives, And add—add —add! In trousers and braces and shirt, Adding at once with a double line, Debits and credits that hurt. But why do I fear the manager? That phantom of austere tone. I’d hardly believe his wealthy face, Could look so like my own— So strangely like my own— Because of the fasts I keep. I marvel that money should be so dear With butter and cheese so cheap. Add—add—add! My labour it never flags; And what are its wages? Three notes or four, Promotion by death—and fags, That dingy roof, this naked floor— A desk and d high-legged chair. My account’s so blank, a shilling I thank For some+'mes remaining there. Oh! but to live the life Of the man about the street, With the sky above my head, And his shoes beneath my feet. For only one short hour, To feel as I used to feel, Before I learnt what bank life meant, And to add without a meal. A heavy hand smote the heaving shoulder of tne sleeper. “You don’t happen to be fourpence out, I suppose,” boomed a cheery voice. With a murmured apology to Thomas Hood, the tired Brown raised heavy eyes. The voice continued: “Awfully sorry to have to say the fourpenny bit is my mistake, now come along home.” C.J.W.