“And you were elected the head of it by popular vote, weren’t you?”
inquired Graves, with irony. “Bet you wouldn’t be willing to put it to
the vote now. All bunk! Humbug! You’re an autocrat, and so am I!”
I remembered this the next morning, when Miss Clare started to work for
me, and I resolved to be a benevolent autocrat. The poor girl had lost
her triumphant air. She was crestfallen, anxious, apprehensive.
“I’ll let her see that I have confidence in her,” I thought.
I gave her some letters to answer herself, without my dictating. They
certainly were not letters of importance. In fact, it would make small
difference to the business whether they were ever answered or not.
Hypocritically, I told myself I ought to keep an eye on her. As a matter
of fact, I couldn’t have helped it, because she was the most incredibly
lovely creature.
Her concentration was distressing. I felt inclined to tell her that the
letters weren’t worth all her trouble--that no letters could be. She was
very nervous. I saw her put sheet after sheet into the typewriter, only
to take it out and crumple it up.
Naturally, she knew our excessive dislike for paper being wasted; and
after a while I saw her stealthily stuffing those crumpled sheets into a
drawer, where they wouldn’t be noticed. Then, suddenly, she straightened
her shoulders, gave a despairing glance round the office, pulled all the
paper out of the drawer, and put it into the wastebasket. It was a small
thing, but it touched me. Whenever I looked at her, and saw that
incriminating mass in the basket beside her, in full light of day, I
mentally saluted her as an honorable soul.
There had come in the morning mail a letter from a rather doubtful
customer, inclosing a check for his last bill and a new order. I felt
pretty sure he was ordering a bit more than the traffic would stand, yet
he seemed to have substantial backing, and it wouldn’t do to risk
offending him. It was Saturday, and I had meant to talk the thing over
with Mr. Reddiman before putting through the order on Monday, when a
telegram came:
Ship goods to-day. Wire, if impossible, and cancel order.
This was very awkward. We were somewhat overstocked just then, and not
particularly busy, so that it would have been easy enough to ship the
stuff; but I was reluctant to take the responsibility. At the same time
I didn’t want to cancel an order of that size.
There wasn’t much time for thought. I sent for my assistant. I told him
to take the check down to the bank it was drawn on and get it cashed. I
also suggested his seeing the manager.
“What bank is it?” he asked.
“I don’t remember,” said I; “but you’ll see by the check.”
And then I couldn’t find the check. It was nearly eleven already, and
there wasn’t a minute to waste. I turned over every paper on my desk; I
made every one else do the same. Check and letter were absolutely gone.
Nothing like this had ever happened before during my régime. I couldn’t
believe it. Now that it’s well in the past, I will admit that perhaps I
didn’t take it very tranquilly; but, after all, it was not soothing,
when I knew some one must be to blame, to have people make idiotic
suggestions about my looking in my pocket. Was I in the habit of putting
the mail into my pocket?
“The thing’s going to be found,” said I, “and found now. Empty the
wastebaskets, and see if it’s been thrown away by mistake.”
The office boy appeared to enjoy doing this, but the rest of them failed
in loyalty. No one looked worried or distressed.
“It’s sure to turn up,” said one.
Another almost suggested that such a letter had never existed.
Attracted by the excitement, Miss Kelly appeared, followed by others who
had no business to come. How cool and reasonable they all were!
“Mercy!” observed Miss Kelly. “What a quantity of paper thrown away!”
She spoke, of course, of the contents of poor Miss Clare’s basket, now
turned out upon a newspaper. She approached it, and picked up one or two
sheets.
“It seems to me scarcely justifiable to waste a sheet merely for writing
‘Dear Bir,’” said she, “or a wrong figure in the date. Errors like that
can easily be--is this the missing letter, by any chance?”
It was the letter, and the check as well, torn into fragments.
“Oh, I didn’t know!” cried Miss Clare. “I’m so awfully sorry! I must
have taken it by accident and torn it up with--with some other things.
I’m so sorry!”
But my exasperation was too great to be melted even by tears in those
incomparable eyes.
“You ought to be sorry!” I said, and so on.
No use recounting the rest of my bad-tempered outburst. I paid for it
later in very genuine regret.