JOHN PEERYBRINGLE ABOUT BANK MANAGERS.

Westport Times, Volume VII, Issue 1090, 18 July 1873, Page 3

JOHN PEERYBRINGLE ABOUT BANK MANAGERS.

[MET/BOURNE WEEKLX TTMfiS.] Bank Managers, as a rule, don't fall upon my neck, and weep, when they meet me; neither do they seem over anxioliß to go into partnership with me in the carrying line. Still I don't believe they're worse than anybody else, and theirs is a line of country I shouldn't so much mind travelling over, if it wasn't for the loftiness of the fences, and a natural failing, that compels me to lend money to a class of dear souls who don't pay up. In a banker this would be" a mistake: in a man they call it a virtue ; but gazing round at the world, and witnessing its weakness (if continued in this style these papers must be paid for extra)— you can't help thinking that the banker's right. The fools go to him, the rogues go to him, and the medium article goes to him, and he has to discount the lot, as you might put it. By reason of this the lot abuse him—behind his back. Why, dear me, one or two of the best men I ever knew were bank managers, and this outcry against all for the fault of one doesn't seem exactly British. The men I speak about would talk to me, although I was only a Carrier; and they were, on my word, real, alive, Upright, and downstraight white men. They'd evett let me pay for the drinks, they were that condescending ; but go to 'em in their parlors, tread upon their native heath, and the play changed with blue fire, and slow music. Not that I ever saw it—not I, for, to me it's the meanest thing in thing in this life to be hail fellow with men, only to get a chance to catch 'em on the ground hop; Now, that wasn't it with me ; but a dainty fellow, ever so much above me, as I mind, tried it oh. He*d met my pleasant manager out skylarking somewhere, and the thought entered into his mind that he'd struck the right lead. He was pleasant too, in his way, this dainty fellow could tell stories well, and sing songs with choruses, that the manager joined in especially when they were Scotch, or some other foreign language. So after an "enjoyable evening," (as the re- 1 - porters say) when the Company thought of returning to " fresh paddocks and pastures new" (reporter language, this also), the genial manager said to the pleasant, airy card : It is the muno, I ken her home, That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bright to wile us hame, But by my sooth she'll bido a wee! Not tho least idea have I as to the retail meaning of that. All I know is that the manager was in a happy frame

of thought. " Oldshfellah/' he continued, " come and sche-me. Shallbedelightedtoscheyou." Next day the dainty fellow went to the singer's (bank) p trior. Now no whiskey in the jar there! | " Good morning," said the manager, in a voice that sounded as if he was drooping icicl&s into a prize bullock, cold enough to freeze him for the journey to England, " Ahem ! Good morning." Then, with a plaintive expression on his countenance, the manager blew his nose ! " I have just stepped in," went on the dainty party, " to mention that I've paid £ls 17s 3d into an account I've just opened with this bank, aud, confound it, old fellow, I suppose you won't mind honoring my cheques for a few hundreds, eh ?" Here the manager blew his nose in a more frantic manner thaa before, but collecting himself after the blow* slowly observed: "We don't want your account, sir; for," and he whispered the chorus of last night's song in a ghastly whisper : ." We are na fou, we're nae that fou, But just a drappie in our e'e."