CHAPTER XXXVIII

CORRUPTING THE BANK CLERK.

In smaller cities, like New Haven, banks are not so thoroughly organized as in a city like New York or Chicago. There is less business, and the duties are not divided up with such exactness among the employees. Moreover, every man employed in a bank like the Elm National, of New Haven, is known personally to depositors and bank officials alike. All are trusted, and they have opportunities to do many irregular things, if they are inclined to take advantage of the chances.

Riggs, the paying teller of the Elm National, had stolen a thousand dollars from the bank. He had told himself, as have so many before him, in similar circumstances, that he was only borrowing the money. He intended to bet it all on a certain horse, and he was sure the horse could not lose. Marsten had been the tempter.

“Sure, I’m giving you the right steer,” Marsten had said. “Ain’t I always treated you right? You know me. You don’t make that bet with me. I take your money, and get it down for you in a big room in New York, just as a favor. If you lose, I don’t get the money, see? It goes to the room. Now, I tell you this gee-gee is going to win at three to one. If you win, I expect you to slip me a couple of hundred for the tip, see? And cheap, at that. Now, who do I want to see win—you, or the pool room? If you win, I get two centuries. If you lose, I don’t get nothing. Figure it out for yourself!”

Riggs could do what he liked with figures, but human nature was too much for him. He figured it out as Marsten wanted him to, and “borrowed” the thousand dollars from the bank, intending to replace it a day or two later, before there was any chance of a discovery of his theft. He was safe from discovery in any case for three weeks, as he understood matters, because there would be no inspection of the bank before that time. So he fell into the trap that has yawned so often before men in a position like his own, and his love of gambling turned him into a thief.

The race in which he had wagered this thousand dollars was run, and, to his horror, his horse, that Marsten had told him was sure to win, ran last. He could not know that Marsten had simply pocketed the money. In giving him the tip, Marsten had picked the one horse in the race that had not one chance in a thousand of winning.

Had the horse, by some miracle, won, Marsten would have paid the bet out of his own pocket, knowing that he would get the money back two or three times over as the result of the inspiriting effect of this one victory. But the miracle hadn’t occurred—it very seldom does—and poor Riggs, knowing the truth, and that in a short time he was sure to be branded as a thief in the town where he had spent his whole life, was almost determined to end his troubles by suicide.

Had it not been for the appearance of Barrows with his scheme, Marsten would have let Riggs kill himself, and would not even have been conscience-stricken by the act. Gamblers harden themselves to things that would turn the stomach of the ordinary man if he thought he was responsible for them. But there was a use for Riggs; so Marsten, professing great regret, sent for him and gave him a chance to talk to Barrows.

“By Jove, Riggs!” he said. “I’m sorry about that. A thing of that sort, a perfectly straight inside tip, doesn’t go wrong once in a thousand times. I suppose it was just our bad luck that made us strike the thousandth time. Better luck next time.”

“There’ll be no next time for me,” said Riggs, almost crying. “If I don’t get that thousand back, I’m a ruined man. My heavens, this is awful!”

“You don’t mean to say you took the bank’s money?” exclaimed Marsten, as if the idea were a complete surprise.

“That’s just what I did,” said Riggs. “You said it was a sure thing, Marsten. I thought there was no risk at all. Can’t you help me out?”

“I wish I could,” said Marsten, shaking his head sadly. “I’d do it in a minute, if I had the money. But I lost pretty heavily on that tip myself. I thought it was safe, just as you did. However, there may be some way of working this out. I’ll call a friend of mine here who may be able to suggest something.”

And he came back with Barrows. Barrows heard the story with deep attention.

“You can’t raise this money, I suppose?” he said. “You haven’t anything put away?”

“On my salary?” said Riggs. “I should say not.”

“That’s just the trouble,” said Barrows. “It’s the fault of the bank, for not giving a man a living wage. They’ve only themselves to blame if anything goes wrong like this. That’s what has turned me into a socialist. When we get control, the men who oppress the poor and make men work for starvation wages won’t be allowed to keep their ill-gotten gains. It may be a long time before we can win in a national election. But in the meantime we are at work quietly. There is an organization that makes it its business to adjust the balance of wealth in all the countries of the world. I am at the head of it in this State. The law, made by capitalists, calls what we take stealing, but that won’t last long.

“Perhaps, if you will work with us, we can help you in this matter. We cannot make the directors of your bank give up their unearned profits, but we can take them away from them. The money we get is used for the cause, and no one really suffers. We do not take from the poor. Instead, we give to them. We help strikes and relieve distress.”

“Do you mean you’d rob the bank?” asked Riggs, in horror. He had been too long a banker not to be appalled by such a suggestion.

“Call it that, if you like,” said Barrows, who was enjoying his task of playing socialist to fool Riggs, who was an innocent, weak-minded little man. “That’s what most people would call what I’m suggesting. But you want to remember that it’s just what you’ve done. Stealing is stealing, whether you take a thousand dollars or two hundred thousand. And our way is safe from detection. No one will ever put us in jail—which is what they will do to you as soon as they find out what you have done.”

For the first time Riggs seemed to realize where he stood. He had convinced himself so thoroughly that he was only borrowing, that the idea that he was a thief was difficult for him to grasp.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, shuddering. “I don’t see what good I can be to you.”

“We won’t ask you to take a cent,” said Barrows, almost pitying the little bank clerk, so abject was his terror. “But we’ll need you in the work of enforcing a division of the spoils of these men you work for, who are the real robbers. We will want you to tell us all about the construction of the bank; to give us the combination of the vault and the safes, if you can, and to help us in other ways. You will be perfectly safe. The thousand you took will appear to have gone with the larger sum that we shall take, and I will see that you get, as your share, another thousand dollars.”

The fear of arrest hung over Riggs. He could not bear the idea of public disgrace. At another time he would have been able to see how ridiculous were the sentiments that Barrows was setting forth. It was not socialism, except in a distorted and absurd form, that Barrows was preaching to him. But Riggs wanted to be convinced. He was like a drowning man, clutching at a straw, and the chance to escape the detection that had seemed inevitable was too much for him.

When he had taken the thousand dollars, he had been able to convince himself that he was not stealing it. He was still, in his own eyes, honest. His theft, as he saw it, was only technical. And now it was the same. Before he could agree to what Barrows might demand, he had to convince himself that his employers had treated him badly, and that in helping these men to rob them, he was taking part in the fight for human rights. A thorough weakling, easily impressed and guided by a stronger will, Riggs did not find it hard to do this. He did not think very long before agreeing to what Barrows wanted.