the assistant bookkeeper was finishing his accounts for the night. he made another entry and blotted’ it before he closed the book and looked up, with a little offhand nod.
the young man moved toward him. “president tetlow asked me to tell you something, harrington.” they were alone in the room, but he spoke in a low tone.
the bookkeeper’s shoulders squared themselves a little. he had expected this. he had known it would come—with the directors’ meeting. he jabbed his pen in a cup of shot and lifted his face sullenly. “well?” his tone, too, was low.
“they raised you five hundred at the meeting,” said john.
the bookkeeper stared at him. then his eyes dropped. he studied his nails for a minute. “what are you talking about?” he muttered.
“five hundred dollars—to begin monday,” said john.
the bookkeeper looked up under his lids, without lifting his head. “what do you mean?” he said slowly.
john waited a minute. when he spoke, a little smile edged the words. “i thought you’d like to know right off—so you could write the c. b. and l. that you won’t be able to do anything for them after today.”
“did n’t it work?” sneered the man.
“it worked too well,” said john. “they’ve lost a good twenty thousand these two weeks—trying to fix it—and the twenty thousand is ours. but we don’t do business that way—not unless we have to,” he added with slow emphasis.
the man looked up. “how are you going to keep tab on me?” he demanded.
“won’t the five hundred keep tab?” asked john.
the man’s smile was wintry. “the c. b. and l. did better,” he said.
“yes—they knew what they were paying for—they thought they knew. the ‘r. and q.’ does n’t.”
the man stirred a little. “all right. it’s a go.” he took up his pen and tried the nib on his thumb nail. his eyes were fixed on it. “cheaper to fire me,” he said, dipping the pen into the ink.
“do you think so?” said john. “wait a minute, harrington.”
the pen paused.
“the ‘r. and q.’ will need straight men the next six months—men that will stand by!”
the man nodded. he was not looking np. “i have an idea, somehow—” the young man hesitated. then he laughed out. “i’ve watched you, you know,” he said frankly, “i ’ve had an eye on you.”
“two of them,” said harrington.
“yes, and i ’ve come to think you may be one of the best men the road’s got.”
“that’s what i’ve thought,” said the man drily.
“i don’t know how you came to be in this c. b. and l. mixup,” said john quickly, “but i think you stood by them as long as you could—”
“that’s me,” said the man.
“—and did their dirty work for them,” added john.
the man’s face clouded a little.
“the ‘r. and q.’ wants that kind of men for clean work—” he paused, seeking the right words. “i ’m not clever, you know,” said john. he raised his clear eyes to the man’s face.
the face sneered a little—then it changed subtly. “i believe you ’re speaking god’s truth,” he said soberly.
“i believe i am,” said john. “i ’m not clever—i know it. but the road needs men that are—men that know enough to be rascals and won’t,” he added quietly.
the man looked at him a minute. then he laughed—a long, full laugh. it had a hint of fellowship in it.—“you ’re a rum un,” he said.
john smiled. “thank you.” he held out his hand. “it ’sa bargain?”
the man hesitated a minute. then he took the hand. “i should think i could give five hundred dollars’ worth of honesty—and i ’d like to give as much over as i can afford.” he said it lightly. but there was a little ring to the words, and the sullen look had vanished from his face.
“that’s all right,” said john. he nodded and was gone.
the assistant bookkeeper sat staring at the pen in his hand—“a rascal,” he chuckled, “but not a fool rascal!—he said it straight, did n’t he?” he chuckled again. he drew the sheet of paper toward him. then he looked up as if a sudden thought had struck him—“and he ’s no fool either!” he said slowly. the pen began its letter to the manager of the c. b. and l.
when the letter reached the manager, he threw it on his desk with an exclamation of disgust.
“what’s up?” said the superintendent.
“harrington.”
“what?”
“backed out,” said the manager.
“more money?”
“i don’t think so.” he consulted the letter. “says he’s sick of it—the whole business.”
“virtuous?—his virtue has n’t been of much use the last few weeks,” suggested the superintendent.
“nobody ’s any use,” said the manager tartly. the two weeks’ losses had worn on his nerves.... “there ’s a man in that office i should like to get,” added the manager after a minute. “he’s young—sort of a boy. but i ’ve a notion we could use him—if we knew what he ’d cost.”
the manager of the c. b. and l. meditated, off and on, the next few days, what john would cost. he never arrived at any conclusion that quite satisfied him. just as he had fixed upon the bait that should tempt a young man who had his way to make in the world—a pair of clear blue eyes confronted him, shining mistily. there was a deep, still glow about that boy when he spoke of tetlow that made him feel the boy was beyond him.
the manager of the c. b. and l. was a practical man and when, in the process of calculation, he ran up against eyes of a young man, he swore softly under his breath.
