intelligent, he soon had the office routine at his fingers'
ends. He grasped the fact that a young man who wishes to succeed
in life must make himself indispensable. In course of time Pulin's
industry and trustworthiness attracted the attention of Mr. Henderson,
who confirmed him as clerk, with a salary of Rs. 35.
But every cup has its bitter drop; and Pulin's was the persistent
enmity of the head clerk, who bore him a grudge for ousting his wife's
nephew and seized every opportunity of annoying him. Leagued with the
arch-enemy were two subordinate clerks, Gyanendra and Lakshminarain
by name, who belonged to Debnath Babu's gusti (family). This trio so
managed matters that all the hardest and most thankless work fell to
Pulin's lot. He bore their pin-pricks with equanimity, secure in the
constant support of Kisari Babu.
One muggy morning in August he awoke with a splitting headache,
the harbinger of an attack of fever, and was obliged to inform the
head clerk, by means of a note, of his inability to attend office. An
answer was brought by Gyanendra to the effect that three days' leave
of absence was granted, but that his work must be carried on by some
other clerk. He was, therefore, ordered to send the key of his desk
by the bearer. For three days the patient endured alternations of
heat and cold; but his malady yielded to quinine, and on the fourth
he was able to resume work.
Soon after reaching the office, he was accosted by one of the bearers,
named Ramtonu, who told him that the Bara Sahebwished to see him at
once. The moment he entered the manager's sanctum he saw that something
unpleasant had occurred. Without wishing him good morning, as usual,
Mr. Henderson handed him a cheque and asked sternly whether he had
filled it up. Pulin examined the document, which turned out to be an
order on the Standard Bank to pay Tarak Ghose & Co. Rs. 200, signed
by Mr. Henderson. He was obliged to admit that the payee's name, as
also the amount in words and figures, seemed to be in his handwriting.
"Yes," rejoined the manager, "and the signature is very like my own;
but it is a forgery. Do you hear me, Babu, a forgery!"
To Pulin's disordered senses the room, with its furniture and
Mr. Henderson's angry face, seemed to be turning round. He gasped
out, "I'm ill, sir!" and sank into a chair. The manager mistook the
remains of fever for a tacit admission of guilt. He waited till Pulin
had regained a share of his wits and sai
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