seven o'clock
It was a week before the Berne sensation died out in the `` banking circles '' of Mt. Alban . It expired one balance night , the end of the month of May . Everything but work must be forgotten in a bank when balance day comes . The manager was back at his desk by seven o'clock , the teller in his cage a few minutes later , Watson turned up about seven-thirty -- the savings-man had taken no nourishment at all . With a pair of red ears and a mouth full of indelible he sat propped up to his savings ledger , the picture of idiocy . His lips moved unintelligibly as he slowly crawled up a long row of figures , smearing the sheet en route . At regular intervals he stopped in the middle of a column , muttered profane repetitions , and started at the bottom again .