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打印My Bank Account Stephen Leacock
When I go into a bank I get frightened. The clerks frighten me; the desks frighten me; the sight of the money frightens me; everything frightens me. The moment I pass through the doors of a bank and attempt to do business there, I become an irresponsible fool.
I knew this before, but my salary had been raised to fifty dollars a month and I felt that the bank was the only place for it.
So I walked unsteadily in and looked round at the clerks with fear. I had an idea that a person who was about to open an account must necessarily consult the manager.
I went up to a place marked "Accountant." The accountant was a tall, cool devil. The very sight of him frightened me. My voice sounded as if it came from the grave.
"Can I see the manager?" I said, and added solemnly, "alone." I don't know why I said "alone."
"Certainly," said the accountant, and brought him.
The manager was a calm, serious man. I held my fifty-six dollars, pressed together in a ball, in my pocket.
"Are you the manager?" I said. God knows I didn't doubt it.
