George Raymond at forty-two was still in the auditor's department
of the New York Central. Time had wrinkled his cheek, had turned
his brown hair to a crisp grey, had bowed his shoulders to the
desk he had used for twenty-two years. His eyes alone retained
their boyish brightness, and a sort of appealing look as of one
who his whole life long had been a dependent on other people. As
an automaton, a mere cog in a vast machine, he had won the praise
of his superiors by his complete self-effacement. He was never
ill, never absent, never had trouble with his subordinates, never
talked back, never made complaints, and, in the flattering
language of the superintendent, "he knew what he knew!"
In the office, as in every other aggregation of human beings,
there were coteries, cliques, friendships and hatreds, jealousies,
heart-burnings and vendettas. There was scarcely a man there
without friends or foes. Raymond alone had neither. To the others
he was a strange, silent, unknown creature whose very address was
a matter of conjecture; a man who did not drink, did not smoke,
did not talk; who ate four bananas for his lunch and invariably
carried a book in the pocket of his shabby coat. It was said of
him that once, during a terrible blizzard, he had been the only
clerk to reach the office; that he had worked there stark alone
until one o'clock, when at the stroke of the hour he had taken out
his four bananas and his book! There were other stories about him
of the same kind, not all of them true to fate, but essentially
true of the man's nature and of his rigid adherence to routine.
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