101
Sometimes he had only a cup of coffee, and then hurried out and wandered about the streets for the remainder of his hour. It was a long hour––a tedious hour. Most of the time he spent in the hope that, by some lucky chance, he might meet her. He did not hunt for her. He avoided her usual course. If he met her, it must be honestly by chance. But he never met her. He passed thousands of other young women, but he never met her. He used to return to the office sometimes doubting that she existed. But at one o’clock she was always there back of her machine.
He spent a good deal of time that week with Powers; and seemed to make some progress. He had now a definite knowledge of bonds and notes, and had even mastered, in a general way, the important details of some of the issues the house was handling. Twice he had taken home his papers and actually spent several hours upon them. Some of them he knew almost by heart. It was encouraging, but it would have been much more encouraging if he had been able to tell Miss Winthrop about it.
Somehow, he did not feel that he really102knew those things until he had told her he knew them. This was a curious frame of mind to be in, but it was a fact.
As far as he was concerned, he would have broken through this embargo long ago. But she had made him see, and see clearly, that he wasnotalone concerned. That was the whole trouble. If Blake talked only about him, and let it go at that, no harm would be done.
One Friday morning, toward eleven o’clock, Blake was out of the office, and Don had just finished a long talk with Powers, when he noticed that Miss Winthrop was not for the moment busy.
Don had an inspiration. He caught Powers just as he was about to leave.
“Look here, old man,” he said in an undertone. “Is there any objection to my dictating a letter to Miss Winthrop?”
“Why, no,” answered Powers. “She’s there for the use of the staff.”
“Thought I’d like to have her take down some of the things we’ve been talking about,” he explained.
“Good idea,” nodded Powers.
103
A minute later Miss Winthrop caught her breath as Don calmly walked to her desk, seated himself in a chair near her, and, producing a circular from his pocket, followed Blake’s formula in asking:––
“Can you take a letter for me, Miss Winthrop?”
Almost as automatically as she answered Blake, she replied:––
“Certainly.”
She reached for her notebook and pencil.
“My dear Madame,” he began.
“Any address, Mr. Pendleton?”
“I don’t know the exact address,” he answered. “Just address it to the little restaurant in the alley.”
She looked up.
“Mr. Pendleton!”
“To the little restaurant in the alley,” he continued calmly. “Do you use Madame or Mademoiselle to an unmarried lady?” he inquired.
“I suppose this is a strictly business letter, or you would not be dictating it in office hours,” she returned.
104
“I’ll make it partly business,” he nodded. “Ready?”
“Yes, Mr. Pendleton; but I don’t think––”
“Who is introducing the personal element now?” he demanded.
“Ready, Mr. Pendleton.”
My dear Madame:––In reply to your advice that I acquire certain information relative to the securities which our firm is offering for sale, I beg to report that, after several talks with our Mr. Powers, I am prepared to give you any information you may desire.
My dear Madame:––
In reply to your advice that I acquire certain information relative to the securities which our firm is offering for sale, I beg to report that, after several talks with our Mr. Powers, I am prepared to give you any information you may desire.
“Try me on one of them?” he suggested, interrupting himself.
She raised her eyes and glanced anxiously around the office. Then she replied, as if reading from her notebook:––
“You forget, Mr. Pendleton, that I am taking a letter from you.”
“Try me on one of the bonds,” he insisted.
“You mustn’t act like this. Really, you mustn’t.”
“Then I’ll dictate some more. Ready?”
“Yes, Mr. Pendleton.”
105
Our Miss Winthrop has just informed me that you have lost your interest in the whole matter.
“I didn’t say that, Mr. Pendleton,” she interrupted.
“What did you say, then?”
“I said that here in the office––”
“Oh, I see. Then scratch that sentence out.”
She scratched it out.
“Have it read this way”:––
Our Miss Winthrop informs me––
“Why need you bring me in at all?” she asked.
“Please don’t interrupt.”
––informs me that, owing to the lack of privacy in the office, you cannot discuss these matters here with me. Therefore I suggest that, as long as the luncheon hour is no longer convenient (for the same reasons), an arrangement be made whereby I may have the pleasure of dining with you some evening.
Miss Winthrop’s brows came together.
“That is absolutely impossible!” she exclaimed.
106
If the idea does not appeal to you as a pleasure,––
he went on in the most impersonal of tones,––
perhaps you would be willing to consider it as a favor. Our Miss Winthrop informs me that the suggestion is impossible, but personally I don’t see how anything could be more easily arranged. I would prefer Saturday evening, as on that date I am quite sure of being sufficiently well provided with ducats––
“You’d better save them,” she interrupted.
––to insure a proper settlement with the waiter,––
he concluded his sentence.
Please let me know, then, where I may meet you on Saturday evening next.
“I told you that was quite impossible, Mr. Pendleton,” she reminded him.
“You haven’t told me why.”
“There are a hundred reasons, and they can’t be discussed here.”
“That’s it,” he exclaimed triumphantly. “That’s the whole trouble! We can’t discuss107things here; so let’s have our little dinner, and then there’ll be all the chance in the world for you to tell me why you shouldn’t come.”
“You’re absurd,” she declared, with an involuntary smile.
Hoping for the favor of an early reply,––
he concluded,––
I beg to remain, Madame, most sincerely yours.
“Is that all?”
“You might add this postscript”:––
I shall be at the Harvard Club at seven to-night, and a ’phone message there might be the most convenient way of replying.
“You don’t really wish this typed, Mr. Pendleton?”
“I think it best,” he replied as he rose, “unless you’re too tired?”
“I’m never tired in business hours.”
He returned to his desk; in a few seconds he heard the click of her machine.
Miss Winthrop did not stop at the delicatessen store that night, but went direct to her108room. She removed her hat and coat, and then sat down, chin in hands, to think this problem out.
She had missed Pendleton at the luncheon hour to a distinctly discomfiting degree. Naturally enough, she held him wholly responsible for that state of mind. Her life had been going along smoothly until he took it upon himself to come into the office. There had been no complications––no worries. She was earning enough to provide her with a safe retreat at night, and to clothe and feed her body; and this left her free, within certain accepted limits, to do as she pleased. This was her enviable condition when Mr. Pendleton came along––came from Heaven knew where, and took up his position near her desk. Then he had happened upon her at the little restaurant. And he was hungry and had only thirteen cents.
Perhaps right there was where she had made her mistake. It appeared that a woman could not be impersonally decent to a man without being held personally responsible. If she did not telephone him to-night, Pendleton would109be disappointed, and, being disappointed, Heaven only knew what he would do.
Under the circumstances, perhaps the wisest thing she could do was to meet him this once and make him clearly understand that she was never to meet him again. Pendleton was young, and he had not been long enough in the office to learn the downtown conventions. It was her fault that she had interested herself in him in the first place. It was her fault that she had allowed him to lunch with her. It was her fault that she had not been strictly businesslike with him in the office. So she would have dinner with him, and that would end it.
She had some tea and crackers, and at half-past six put on her things and took a short walk. At seven she went into a public pay station, rang up the Harvard Club, and called for Mr. Pendleton. When she heard his voice her cheeks turned scarlet.
“If you insist I’ll come to-morrow night,” she informed him. “But––”
“Say, that’s fine!” he interrupted.
“But I want you to understand that I don’t approve of it.”
110
“Oh, that’s all right,” he assured her. “Where may I call for you?”
“I––I don’t know.”
“Where do you live?”
She gave her address.
“Then I’ll call there.”
“Very well,” she answered.
“Now, I call that mighty good of you,” he ran on. “And––”
“Good-night,” she concluded sharply.
She hung up the receiver and went back to her room in anything but a comfortable frame of mind.
111CHAPTER XISTEAK, WITH MUSHROOMS AND ADVICE
All of Miss Winthrop that occupied a desk in the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves on the next day was that for which Farnsworth was paying a weekly wage of twelve dollars. From the moment she entered that morning until she left that afternoon she made this perfectly clear to every one, including Don. But he also was busy. He had determined to make himself letter perfect on several bond issues. To this end he worked as hard as ever he had the day before a final examination. Besides this, Farnsworth found three or four errands for him to do, which he accomplished with dispatch. All that week Farnsworth had used him more and more––a distinctly encouraging sign. Don knew offhand now the location of some ten or fifteen offices, and was received in them as the recognized representative of Carter, Rand & Seagraves. In some places he was even known by name and addressed as112Mr. Pendleton––which filled him with considerable pride.
Don went direct to his house from the office, dressed, and went to the club.
“If any one rings me up, get the name,” he ordered the doorman.
He avoided the crowd before the bar, and went upstairs to the library. He had brought his circulars with him, and now went over them once again in order to refresh his memory on some of the details. He was as anxious about getting this right as if Miss Winthrop were a prospective customer. Perhaps she might be. Women invested money, and if he was persuasive enough he might sell her a thousand-dollar bond. If he did not sell one to her, he might sell a few to Barton. Barton was always investing money––investing the Pendleton money, in fact. He might suggest Barton to Farnsworth, and drop around and see him to-morrow. Then Barton might suggest some one else. Before night he might in this way sell a couple of dozen of these bonds. He grew excited at the idea. He felt a new instinct stirring within him.
113
Don had never sold anything in his life except a few old clothes to second-hand clothes men in Cambridge. Strictly speaking, that was more in the nature of a gift than a sale: for a hundred dollars’ worth of clothes, he received perhaps ten dollars, which he felt obliged to spend on his friends at the first opportunity.
Don had always been a buyer––a talent that required neither preparation nor development. Money had always passed from him to some one else. This was pleasant enough, but undramatic. There was no clash; it called for no effort on his part. To reverse all this and watch the money pass in the other direction––from some one else to him––impressed him as a pleasant variation.
At seven o’clock Don replaced his circulars in his pocket and went downstairs. Wadsworth passed him, and for a moment Don was tempted to stop him and try out his knowledge of bonds on him. The club, however, was hardly the place for that. But if ever he met Wadsworth on the street he would see what he could do. Wadsworth had never been more114than an acquaintance of his, but now he saw in him a prospective customer.
Don stepped into a taxi at the door and gave the driver the address supplied by Miss Winthrop. The cab after a little came to a stop before one of several entrances in a long brick block. Before Don had time to reach the door Miss Winthrop stepped out. He had rather hoped for an opportunity to meet some of her family.
“Am I late?” he inquired anxiously.
He could not account in any other way for the fact that she had hurried out before he had a chance to send in his card.
“No,” she answered. “Did you come in that?”
She was looking at the taxi.
He nodded, and stood at the door, ready to assist her in.
“Well, you may send it away now,” she informed him.
“But––”
“I won’t go in it,” she insisted firmly.
“Afraid it will break down?”
“Are you going to send it away?”
115
Without further argument he paid the driver and sent him off.
“It isn’t right to waste money like that,” she told him.
“Oh, that was the trouble? But it wouldn’t have cost more than a couple of dollars to have gone back with him.”
“Two dollars! That’s carfare for three weeks.”
“Of course, if you look at it that way. But here we are away uptown, and––hanged if I know how to get out.”
He looked around, as bewildered as a lost child. She could not help laughing.
“If you’re as helpless as that I don’t see how you ever get home at night,” she said.
He looked in every direction, but he did not see a car line. He turned to her.
“I won’t help you,” she said, shaking her head.
“Then we’ll have to walk until we come to the Elevated,” he determined.
“All right,” she nodded. “Only, if you don’t go in the right direction you will walk all night before you come to the Elevated.”
116
“I can ask some one, can’t I?”
“I certainly would before I walked very far.”
“Then I’m going to ask you.”
He raised his hat.
“I beg pardon, madame, but would you be so good––”
“Oh, turn to the right,” she laughed. “And do put on your hat.”
It was a quiet little French restaurant of the better kind to which he took her––a place he had stumbled on one evening, and to which he occasionally went when the club menu did not appeal to him. Jacques had reserved a table in a corner, and had arranged there the violets that Monsieur Pendleton had sent for this purpose. On the whole, it was just as well Miss Winthrop did not know this, or of the tip that was to lead to a certain kind of salad and to an extravagant dish with mushrooms to come later. It is certain that Monsieur Pendleton knew how to arrange a dinner from every other but the economical end.
Don was very much himself to-night, and in an exceedingly good humor. In no time he made her also feel very much herself and put117her into an equally good humor. Her cares, her responsibilities, her fears, vanished as quickly as if the last three or four years had taught her nothing. She had started with set lips, and here she was with smiling ones. In the half-hour that she waited in her room for him, she had rehearsed a half-dozen set speeches; now she did not recall one of them.
Don suggested wine, but she shook her head. She had no need of wine. It was wine enough just to be out of her room at night; wine enough just to get away from the routine of her own meals; wine enough just not to be alone; wine enough just to get away from her own sex for a little.
Don chatted on aimlessly through the anchovies, the soup, and fish, and she enjoyed listening to him. He was the embodiment of youth, and he made even her feel like a care-free girl of sixteen again. This showed in her face, in the relaxed muscles about her mouth, and in her brightened eyes.
Then, during the long wait for the steak and mushrooms, his face became serious, and he leaned across the table.
118
“By the way,” he began, “the house has received a new allotment of bonds; I want to tell you about them.”
He had his facts well in hand, and he spoke with conviction and an unconventionality of expression that made her listen. She knew a good salesman when she heard one, whether she was familiar with the particular subject-matter or not. The quality of salesmanship really had nothing to do with the subject-matter. A good salesman can sell anything. It has rather to do with that unknown gift which distinguishes an actor able to pack a house from an actor with every other quality able only to half fill a house. It has nothing to do with general intelligence; it has nothing to do with conscientious preparation; it has nothing to do with anything but itself. It corresponds to what in a woman is called charm, and which may go with a pug nose or freckles or a large mouth. But it cannot be cultivated. It either is or is not.
It was the mushrooms and steak that interrupted him. Jacques was trying to draw his attention to the sizzling hot platter which he119was holding for his inspection––a work of art in brown and green. Ordinarily Monsieur Pendleton took some time to appreciate his efforts. Now he merely nodded:––
“Good.”
Jacques was somewhat disappointed.
“Madame sees it?” he ventured.
Madame, who was sitting with her chin in her hands, staring across the table at Monsieur, started.
“Yes,” she smiled. “It is beautiful.”
But, when Jacques turned away to carve, she continued to stare again at Mr. Pendleton.
“It’s in you,” she exclaimed. “Oh, what a chance you have!”
“You think I’ll do?”
“I think that in two years you’ll be outselling any one in the office,” she answered.
His face flushed at the praise.
“That’s straight?”
“That’s straight,” she nodded. “And within another year Farnsworth will pay you anything you demand.”
“Ten thousand?”
120
“A gift like yours is worth that to the house––if you don’t spoil it.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, I mean you must keep it fresh and clean and free, and not mix it up with money,” she ran on eagerly. “You must keep right on selling for the fun of the game and not for the gain. The gain will come fast enough. Don’t worry about that. But if you make it the end, it may make an end of your gift. And you mustn’t get foolish with success. And you mustn’t––oh, there are a hundred ways of spoiling it all.”
It was her apparent sure knowledge of these things that constantly surprised him.
“How do you know?” he demanded.
“Because I’ve seen and heard. All I can do is to stop, look, and listen, isn’t it?”
“And warn the speeders?” he laughed.
“If I could do that much it would be something,” she answered wistfully.
“Will you warn me?”
“I’m warning you now.”
She met his eyes with a puzzled frown.
“I’ve seen a lot of men start right, but they don’t stay right. Why don’t they?”
121
“But a lot of them do,” he answered.
“And they are the kind that just stay. I hate that kind. I hate people who just stay. That’s why I hate myself sometimes.”
He looked up at her quickly. It was the first indication he had that she was not continually in an unbroken state of calm content. He caught her brown eyes grown suddenly full, as if they themselves had been startled by the unexpected exclamation.
“What’s that you said?” he demanded.
She tried to laugh, but she was still too disconcerted to make it a successful effort. She was not often goaded into as intimate a confession as this.
“It isn’t worth repeating,” she answered uneasily.
“You said you hated yourself sometimes.”
“The steak is very, very good,” she answered, smiling.
“Then you aren’t hating yourself now?”
“No, no,” she replied quickly. “It’s only when I get serious and––please don’t let’s be serious.”
The rest of the dinner was very satisfactory,122for he left her nothing to do but sit back and enjoy herself. And he made her laugh, sharing with him his laughter. It was half-past ten when they arose and went out upon the street. There she kept right on forgetting. It was not until she stood in her room, half-undressed, that she remembered she had not told Pendleton that to-night was positively to bring to an end this impossible friendship.
123CHAPTER XIIA SOCIAL WIDOW
With the approach of the holiday season, when pretty nearly every one comes back to town, Frances found her engagements multiplying so rapidly that it required a good deal of tact and not a little arithmetic to keep them from conflicting. In this emergency, when she really needed Don, not only was he of no practical help, but he further embarrassed her by announcing a blanket refusal of all afternoon engagements. This placed her in the embarrassing position of being obliged to go alone and then apologize for him.
“Poor Don is in business now,” was her stock explanation.
She was irritated with Don for having placed her in this position. In return for having surrendered to him certain privileges, she had expected him to fulfill certain obligations. If she had promised to allow him to serve exclusively as her social partner, then he should124have been at all times available. He had no right to leave her a social widow––even when he could not help it. As far as the afternoons were concerned, the poor boy could not help it––she knew that; but, even so, why should her winter be broken up by what some one else could not help?
She had given her consent to Don, not to a business man. As Don he had been delightful. No girl could ask to have a more attentive and thoughtful fiancé than he had been. He allowed her to make all his engagements for him, and he never failed her. He was the only man she knew who could sit through a tea without appearing either silly or bored. And he was nice––but not too nice––to all her girl friends, so that most of them were jealous of her. Decidedly, she had had nothing to complain of.
And she had not complained, even when he announced that he was penniless. This did not affect her feeling toward Don himself. It was something of a nuisance, but, after all, a matter of no great consequence. She had no doubt he could make all the money he wanted, just as her father had done.
125
But of late it had been increasingly difficult to persuade him, on account of business, to fulfill even his evening engagements. He was constantly reminding her of bonds and things that he must study. Well, if it was necessary for him to study bonds and things, he should find some way of doing it that would not interfere with her plans.
The climax came when he asked to be excused from the Moore cotillion because he had three other dances for that week.
“You see,” he explained, “Farnsworth is going to let me go out and sell as soon as I’m fit, and so I’m putting in a lot of extra time.”
“Who is Farnsworth?” she inquired.
“Why, he’s the general manager. I’ve told you about him.”
“I remember now. But, Don dear, you aren’t going tosellthings?”
“You bet I am,” he answered enthusiastically. “All I’m waiting for is a chance.”
“But what do you sell?” she inquired.
“Investment securities.”
He seemed rather pleased that she was showing so much interest.
126
“You see, the house buys a batch of securities wholesale and then sells them at retail––just as a grocer does.”
“Don!”
“It’s the same thing,” he nodded.
“Then I should call it anything but an attractive occupation.”
“That’s because you don’t understand. You see, here’s a man with some extra money to invest. Now, when you go to him, maybe he has something else in mind to do with that money. What you have to do––”
“Please don’t go into details, Don,” she interrupted. “You know I wouldn’t understand.”
“If you’d just let me explain once,” he urged.
“It would only irritate me,” she warned. “I’m sure it would only furnish you with another reason why you shouldn’t go about as much as you do.”
“It would,” he agreed. “That’s why I want to make it clear. Don’t you see that if I keep at this for a few years––”
“Years?” she gasped.
“Well, until I get my ten thousand.”
127
“But I thought you were planning to have that by next fall at the latest.”
“I’m going to try,” he answered. “I’m going to try hard. But, somehow, it doesn’t look as easy as it did before I started. I didn’t understand what a man has to know before he’s worth all that money.”
“I’m sure I don’t find ten thousand to be very much,” she observed.
“Perhaps it isn’t much to spend,” he admitted, “but it’s a whole lot to earn. I know a bunch of men who don’t earn it.”
“Then they must be very stupid.”
“No; but somehow dollars look bigger downtown than they do uptown. Why, I know a little restaurant down there where a dollar looks as big as ten.”
“Don, dear, you’re living too much downtown,” she exclaimed somewhat petulantly. “You don’t realize it, but you are. It’s making you different––and I don’t want you different. I want you just as you used to be.”
She fell back upon a straight appeal––an appeal of eyes and arms and lips.
“I miss you awfully in the afternoons,” she128went on, “but I’ll admit that can’t be helped. I’ll give up that much of you. But after dinner I claim you. You’re mine after dinner, Don.”
She was very tender and beautiful in this mood. When he saw her like this, nothing else seemed to matter. There was no downtown or uptown; there was only she. There was nothing to do but stoop and kiss her eager lips. Which is exactly what he did.
For a moment she allowed it, and then with an excited laugh freed herself.
“Please to give me one of your cards, Don,” she said.
He handed her a card, and she wrote upon it this:––
“December sixteenth, Moore cotillion.”
129CHAPTER XIIIDEAR SIR––
Don never had an opportunity to test his knowledge of the bonds about which he had laboriously acquired so much information, because within the next week all these offerings had been sold and their places taken by new securities. These contained an entirely different set of figures. It seemed to him that all his previous work was wasted. He must begin over again; and, as far as he could see, he must keep on beginning over again indefinitely. He felt that Farnsworth had deprived him of an opportunity, and this had the effect of considerably dampening his enthusiasm.
Then, too, during December and most of January Frances kept him very busy. He had never seen her so gay or so beautiful. She was like a fairy sprite ever dancing to dizzy music. He followed her in a sort of daze from dinner to dance, until the strains of music whirled through his head all day long.
130
The more he saw of her, the more he desired of her. In Christmas week, when every evening was filled and he was with her from eight in the evening until two and three and four the next morning, he would glance at his watch every ten minutes during the following day. The hours from nine to five were interminable. He wandered restlessly about the office, picking up paper and circular, only to drop them after an uneasy minute or two. The entire office staff faded into the background. Even Miss Winthrop receded until she became scarcely more than a figure behind a typewriter. When he was sent out by Farnsworth, he made as long an errand of it as he could. He was gone an hour, or an hour and a half, on commissions that should not have taken half the time.
It was the week of the Moore cotillion that Miss Winthrop observed the change in him. She took it to be a natural enough reaction and had half-expected it. There were very few men, her observation had told her, who could sustain themselves at their best for any length of time. This was an irritating fact, but being131a fact had to be accepted. As a man he was entitled to an off day or two––possibly to an off week.
But when the second and third and fourth week passed without any notable improvement in him, Miss Winthrop became worried.
“You ought to put him wise,” she ventured to suggest to Powers.
“I?” Powers had inquired.
“Well, he seems like a pretty decent sort,” she answered indifferently.
“So he is,” admitted Powers, with an indifference that was decidedly more genuine than her own. It was quite clear that Powers’s interest went no further. He had a wife and two children and his own ambitions.
For a long time she saw no more of him than she saw of Blake. He nodded a good-morning when he came in, and then seemed to lose himself until noon. Where he lunched she did not know. For a while she had rather looked for him, and then, to cure herself of that, had changed her own luncheon place. At night he generally hurried out early––a bad practice in itself: at least once, Farnsworth132had wanted him for something after he was gone; he had made no comment, but it was the sort of thing Farnsworth remembered. When, on the very next day, Mr. Pendleton started home still earlier, it had required a good deal of self-control on her part not to stop him. But she did not stop him. For one thing, Blake was at his desk at the time.
It was a week later that Miss Winthrop was called into the private office of Mr. Seagraves one afternoon. His own stenographer had been taken ill, and he wished her to finish the day. She took half a dozen letters, and then waited while Farnsworth came in for a confidential consultation upon some business matters. It was as the latter was leaving that Mr. Seagraves called him back.
“How is Pendleton getting along?” he inquired.
Miss Winthrop felt her heart stop for a beat or two. She bent over her notebook to conceal the color that was burning her cheeks. For an impersonal observer she realized they showed too much.
“I think he has ability,” Farnsworth answered133slowly. “He began well, but he has let down a little lately.”
“That’s too bad,” answered Mr. Seagraves. “I thought he would make a good man for us.”
“I can tell better in another month,” Mr. Farnsworth answered.
“We need another selling man,” declared Mr. Seagraves.
“We do,” nodded Farnsworth. “I have my eye on several we can get if Pendleton doesn’t develop.”
“That’s good. Ready, Miss Winthrop.”
The thing Miss Winthrop had to decide that night was whether she should allow Mr. Pendleton to stumble on to his doom or take it upon herself to warn him. She was forced to carry that problem home with her, and eat supper with it, and give up her evening to it. Whenever she thought of it from that point of view, she grew rebellious and lost her temper. There was not a single sound argument why her time and her thought should be thus monopolized by Mr. Pendleton.
She had already done what she could for him, and it had not amounted to a row of pins. She134had told him to go to bed at night, so that he could get up in the morning fresh, and he had not done it. She had advised him to hustle whenever he was on an errand for Farnsworth, and of late he had loafed. She had told him to keep up to the minute on the current investments the house was offering, and to-day he probably could not have told even the names of half of them. No one could argue that it was her duty to keep after him every minute––as if he belonged to her.
And then, in spite of herself, her thoughts went back to the private office of Mr. Seagraves. She recalled the expression on the faces of the two men––an expression denoting only the most fleeting interest in the problem of Mr. Pendleton. If he braced up, well and good; if he did not, then it was only a question of selecting some one else. It was Pendleton’s affair, not theirs.
That was what every one thought except Pendleton himself––who did not think at all, because he did not know. And if no one told him, then he would never know. Some day Mr. Farnsworth would call him into the office135and inform him his services were no longer needed. He would not tell him why, even if Don inquired. So, with everything almost within his grasp, Pendleton would go. Of course, he might land another place; but it was no easy thing to find the second opportunity, having failed in the first.
Yet this was all so unnecessary. Mr. Pendleton had in him everything Farnsworth wanted. If the latter could have heard him talk as she had heard him talk, he would have known this. Farnsworth ought to send him out of the office––let him get among men where he could talk. And that would come only if Mr. Pendleton could hold on here long enough. Then hemusthold on. He must cut out his late hours and return to his old schedule. She must get hold of him and tell him. But how?
The solution came the next morning. She decided that if she had any spare time during the day she would write him what she had to say. When she saw him drift in from lunch at twenty minutes past one, she took the time without further ado. She snatched a sheet of136office paper, rolled it into the machine, snapped the carriage into position, and began.
MR. DONALD PENDLETON,Care Carter, Rand & Seagraves,New York, N.Y.Dear Sir:––Of course it is none of my business whether you get fired or not; but, even if it isn’t, I like to see a man have fair warning. Farnsworth doesn’t think that way. He gives a man all the rope he wants and lets him hang himself. That is just what he’s doing with you. I had a tip straight from the inside the other day that if you keep on as you have for the last six weeks you will last here just about another month. That isn’t a guess, either; it’s right from headquarters.For all I know, this is what you want; but if it is, I’d rather resign on my own account than be asked to resign. It looks better, and helps you with the next job. Most men downtown have a prejudice against a man who has been fired.You needn’t ask me where I got my information, because I won’t tell you. I’ve no business to tell you this much. What you want to remember is that Farnsworth knows every time you get in from lunch twenty minutes late, as you did to-day; and he knows when you get in late in the morning, as you have eleven times now; and he knows when you take an hour and a half for a half-hour errand, as you have seven times; and he137knows when you’re in here half-dead, as you’ve been all the time; and he knows what you don’t know about what you ought to know. And no one has to tell him, either. He gets it by instinct.So you needn’t say no one warned you, and please don’t expect me to tell you anything more, because I don’t know anything more. I am,Respectfully yours,SARAH K. WINTHROP.
MR. DONALD PENDLETON,Care Carter, Rand & Seagraves,New York, N.Y.
Dear Sir:––
Of course it is none of my business whether you get fired or not; but, even if it isn’t, I like to see a man have fair warning. Farnsworth doesn’t think that way. He gives a man all the rope he wants and lets him hang himself. That is just what he’s doing with you. I had a tip straight from the inside the other day that if you keep on as you have for the last six weeks you will last here just about another month. That isn’t a guess, either; it’s right from headquarters.
For all I know, this is what you want; but if it is, I’d rather resign on my own account than be asked to resign. It looks better, and helps you with the next job. Most men downtown have a prejudice against a man who has been fired.
You needn’t ask me where I got my information, because I won’t tell you. I’ve no business to tell you this much. What you want to remember is that Farnsworth knows every time you get in from lunch twenty minutes late, as you did to-day; and he knows when you get in late in the morning, as you have eleven times now; and he knows when you take an hour and a half for a half-hour errand, as you have seven times; and he137knows when you’re in here half-dead, as you’ve been all the time; and he knows what you don’t know about what you ought to know. And no one has to tell him, either. He gets it by instinct.
So you needn’t say no one warned you, and please don’t expect me to tell you anything more, because I don’t know anything more. I am,
Respectfully yours,SARAH K. WINTHROP.
She addressed this to the Harvard Club, and posted it that night on her way home. It freed her of a certain responsibility, and so helped her to enjoy a very good dinner.
138CHAPTER XIVIN REPLY
Don did not receive Miss Winthrop’s letter until the following evening. He had dropped into the club to join Wadsworth in a bracer,––a habit he had drifted into this last month,––and opened the envelope with indifferent interest, expecting a tailor’s announcement. He caught his breath at the first line, and then read the letter through some five times. Wadsworth, who was waiting politely, grew impatient.
“If you’re trying to learn that by heart––” he began.
Don thrust the letter into his pocket.
“I beg your pardon,” he apologized. “It––it was rather important.”
They sat down in the lounge.
“What’s yours?” inquired Wadsworth, as in response to a bell a page came up.
“A little French vichy,” answered Don.
“Oh, have a real drink,” Wadsworth urged.
“I think I’d better not to-night,” answered Don.
139
Wadsworth ordered a cock-tail for himself.
“How’s the market to-day?” he inquired. He always inquired how the market was of his business friends––as one inquires as to the health of an elderly person.
“I don’t know,” answered Don.
“You don’t mean to say you’ve cut out business?” exclaimed Wadsworth.
“I guess I have,” Don answered vaguely.
“Think of retiring?”
“To tell the truth, I hadn’t thought of it until very lately; but now––”
Don restrained a desire to read his letter through once more.
“Take my advice and do it,” nodded Wadsworth. “Nothing in it but a beastly grind. It’s pulling on you.”
As a matter of fact, Don had lost some five pounds in the last month, and it showed in his face. But it was not business which had done that, and he knew it. Also Miss Winthrop knew it.
It was certainly white of her to take the trouble to write to him like this. He wondered why she did. She had not been very much in140his thoughts of late, and he took it for granted that to the same degree he had been absent from hers. And here she had been keeping count of every time he came in late. Curious that she should have done that!
In the library, he took out the letter and read it through again. Heavens, he could not allow himself to be discharged like an unfaithful office-boy! His father would turn in his grave. It would be almost as bad as being discharged for dishonesty.
Don’s lips came together in thin lines. This would never do––never in the world. As Miss Winthrop suggested, he had much better resign. Perhaps he ought to resign, anyway. No matter what he might do in the future, he could not redeem the past; and if Farnsworth felt he had not been playing the game right, he ought to take the matter in his own hands and get off the team. But, in a way, that would be quitting––and the Pendletons had never been quitters. It would be quitting, both inside the office and out. He had to have that salary to live on. Without it, life would become a very serious matter. The more he thought of this, the more141he realized that resigning was out of the question. He really had no alternative but to make good; so hewouldmake good.
The resolution, in itself, was enough to brace him. The important thing now was, not to make Carter, Rand & Seagraves understand this, not to make Farnsworth understand this: it was to make Miss Winthrop understand it. He seized a pen and began to write.
MY DEAR SARAH K. WINTHROP[he began]:––Farnsworth ought to be sitting at your desk plugging that machine, and you ought to be holding down his chair before the roll-top desk. You’d get more work out of every man in the office in a week than he does in a month. Maybe he knows more about bonds than you do, but he doesn’t know as much about men. If he did he’d have waded into me just the way you did.I’m not saying Farnsworth hasn’t good cause to fire me. He has, and that’s just what you’ve made clear. But, honest and hope to die, I didn’t realize it until I read your letter. I knew I’d been getting in late and all that; but, as long as it didn’t seem to make any difference to any one, I couldn’t see the harm in it. I’d probably have kept on doing it if you hadn’t warned me. And I’d have been fired, and deserved it.If that had happened I think my father would142have risen from his grave long enough to come back and disown me. He was the sort of man I have a notion you’d have liked. He’d be down to the office before the doors were open, and he’d stay until some one put him out. I guess he was born that way. But I don’t believe he ever stayed up after ten o’clock at night in his life. Maybe there wasn’t as much doing in New York after ten in those days as there is now.I don’t want to make any excuses, but, true as you’re living, if I turned in at ten I might just as well set up business in the Fiji Islands. It’s about that time the evening really begins. How do you work it yourself? I wish you’d tell me how you get in on time, looking fresh as a daisy. And what sort of an alarm-clock do you use? I bought one the other day as big as a snare-drum, and the thing never made a dent. Then I tried having Nora call me, but I only woke up long enough to tell her to get out and went to sleep again. If your system isn’t patented I wish you’d tell me what it is. In the mean while, I’m going to sit up all night if I can’t get up any other way.Because I’m going to make the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves on time, beginning to-morrow morning. You watch me. And I’ll make up for the time I’ve overdrawn on lunches by getting back in twenty minutes after this. As for errands––you take the time when Farnsworth sends me out again.You’re dead right in all you said, and if I can’t143make good in the next few months I won’t wait for Farnsworth to fire me––I’ll fire myself. But that isn’t going to happen. The livest man in that office is going to beYours truly,Donald Pendleton, Jr.
MY DEAR SARAH K. WINTHROP[he began]:––
Farnsworth ought to be sitting at your desk plugging that machine, and you ought to be holding down his chair before the roll-top desk. You’d get more work out of every man in the office in a week than he does in a month. Maybe he knows more about bonds than you do, but he doesn’t know as much about men. If he did he’d have waded into me just the way you did.
I’m not saying Farnsworth hasn’t good cause to fire me. He has, and that’s just what you’ve made clear. But, honest and hope to die, I didn’t realize it until I read your letter. I knew I’d been getting in late and all that; but, as long as it didn’t seem to make any difference to any one, I couldn’t see the harm in it. I’d probably have kept on doing it if you hadn’t warned me. And I’d have been fired, and deserved it.
If that had happened I think my father would142have risen from his grave long enough to come back and disown me. He was the sort of man I have a notion you’d have liked. He’d be down to the office before the doors were open, and he’d stay until some one put him out. I guess he was born that way. But I don’t believe he ever stayed up after ten o’clock at night in his life. Maybe there wasn’t as much doing in New York after ten in those days as there is now.
I don’t want to make any excuses, but, true as you’re living, if I turned in at ten I might just as well set up business in the Fiji Islands. It’s about that time the evening really begins. How do you work it yourself? I wish you’d tell me how you get in on time, looking fresh as a daisy. And what sort of an alarm-clock do you use? I bought one the other day as big as a snare-drum, and the thing never made a dent. Then I tried having Nora call me, but I only woke up long enough to tell her to get out and went to sleep again. If your system isn’t patented I wish you’d tell me what it is. In the mean while, I’m going to sit up all night if I can’t get up any other way.
Because I’m going to make the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves on time, beginning to-morrow morning. You watch me. And I’ll make up for the time I’ve overdrawn on lunches by getting back in twenty minutes after this. As for errands––you take the time when Farnsworth sends me out again.
You’re dead right in all you said, and if I can’t143make good in the next few months I won’t wait for Farnsworth to fire me––I’ll fire myself. But that isn’t going to happen. The livest man in that office is going to be
Yours truly,Donald Pendleton, Jr.
Don addressed the letter to the office, mailed it, and went home to dress. But before going upstairs he called to Nora.
“Nora,” he said, “you know that I’m in business now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you wouldn’t like to see me fired, would you?”
“Oh, Lord, sir!” gasped Nora.
“Then you get me up to-morrow morning at seven o’clock, because if I’m late again that is just what is going to happen. And you know what Dad would say to that.”
The next morning Don stepped briskly into the office five minutes ahead of Miss Winthrop.