There had been great excitement in the private offices of Beagle
and Company after Gissing's sudden disappearance. Old Mr. Beagle was
furious, and hotly scolded his son. In spite of his advanced age, Beagle
senior was still an autocrat and insisted on regulating the details
of the great business he had built up. “You numbskull!” he shouted to
Beagle junior, “that fellow was worth any dozen others in the place, and
you let him be fired by a mongrel superintendent.”
“But, Papa,” protested the vice-president, “the superintendent had to
obey the rules. You know how strict the underwriters are about smoking.
Of course he should have warned Gissing, instead of discharging him.”
“Rules!” interrupted old Beagle fiercely--“Rules don't apply in a case
like this. I tell you that fellow has a genius for storekeeping. Haven't
I watched him on the floor? I've never seen one like him. What's the
good of your newfangled methods, your card indexes and overhead charts,
when you haven't even got a record of his address?”
Growling and showing his teeth, the head of the firm plodded stiffly
downstairs and discharged the superintendent himself. Already he saw
signs of disorganization in the main aisle. Miss Whippet was tearful:
customers were waiting impatiently to have exchange slips O. K.'d: Mrs.
Dachshund was turning over some jewelled lorgnettes, but it was plain
that she was only “looking,” and had no intention to purchase.
So when, after many vain inquiries, the advertisement reached its
target, the old gentleman welcomed Gissing with genuine emotion. He
received him into his private office, locked the door, and produced a
decanter. Evidently beneath his irritable moods he had sensibilities of
his own.
“I have given my life to trade,” he said, “and I have grown weary of
watching the half-hearted simpletons who imagine they can rise to the
top by thinking more about themselves than they do about the business.
You, Mr. Gissing, have won my heart. You see storekeeping as I do--a
fine art, an absorbing passion, a beautiful, thrilling sport. It is an
art as lovely and subtle as the theatre, with the same skill in wooing
and charming the public.”
Gissing bowed, and drank Mr. Beagle's health, to cover his astonishment.
The aged merchant fixed him with a glittering eye.
“I can see that storekeeping is your genius in life. I can see that you
are naturally consecrated to it. My son is a good steady fellow, but he
lacks the divine gift. I am getting old. We need new fire, new brains,
in the conduct of this business. I ask you to forgive the unlucky
blunder we made lately, and devote yourself to us.”
Gissing was very much embarrassed. He wanted to say that if he was
going to consecrate himself to floorwalking, he would relish a raise
in salary; but old Beagle was so tremulous and kept blowing his nose so
loudly that Gissing doubted if he could make himself heard.
“I want you to take a position as General Manager,” said Mr. Beagle,
“with a salary of ten thousand a year.”
He rose and threw open a mahogany door that led out of his own sanctum.
“Here is your office,” he said.
The bewildered Gissing looked about the room--the mahogany flat-topped
desk with a great sheet of plate glass shining greenly at its thick
edges; an inkwell, pens and pencils, a little glass bowl full of bright
paper-clips; one of those rocking blotters that are so tempting; a water
cooler which just then uttered a seductive gulping bubble; an electric
fan, gently humming; wooden trays for letters and memoranda; on one
wall a great chart of names, lettered Organization of Personnel; a nice
domestic-looking hat-and-coat stand; a soft green rug--Ah, how alluring
it all was!
Mr. Beagle pointed to the outer door of the room, which had a frosted
pane. Through the glass the astounded floorwalker could read the words