THE GREATEST GAME IN THE WORLD
On the day set for the beginning of Roger Wynrod's business career, Good
introduced him to the more important members of the staff, all of whom
expressed their profound pleasure at making his acquaintance, and
without further conversation departed to more pressing duties. Their
indifference rather nettled him, but he consoled himself by ascribing it
to the high pressure under which newspaper offices notoriously laboured.
He was quite mollified, however, when he reached the door of the office
he was to occupy, and found his name prominently engrossed upon it in
letters of gilt. He was also much pleased with the furniture,
particularly the desk, a tremendous affair of mahogany, filled with all
manner of alluring receptacles. The office, he was gratified to note,
while not large, appeared more or less private.
"Now then," said Good, "here's your shop. Get to work. I'll be around
the building somewhere if you need me."
Jenkins, the Business Manager, had suggested, rather diffidently, that a
good way to begin to work would be to acquire familiarity with the
files of the paper. So, after making a cursory examination of his more
material surroundings, he attacked the huge volumes which he found on
his table, containing, he was sure, copies of _The Dispatch_ for at
least a century back.
He pursued the task diligently enough, at first, but it was not long
before his interest flagged. One issue seemed painfully like another. It
was very quiet in the little room, and as he sat wearily fingering the
dusty sheets he felt curiously isolated and futile. The conviction
gradually settled upon him that business was hardly as entertaining as
it had been described. By eleven o'clock his patience was exhausted.
With a word or two, more vigorous than elegant, he swept the bulky tomes
upon the floor, and went in search of Jenkins.
The Business Manager ran his hand through his hair helplessly when Roger
stated his grievance.
"I've been awful busy, Mr. Wynrod," he said apologetically. "If you'll
only be patient. Just a day or two--rushed to death just now, don't you
know."
"In a day or two?" cried Roger. "Good Lord, man--two _hours_ have been
too much for me. Something's simply got to happen or I'll go nutty!"
Jenkins laughed, though not very mirthfully. Inwardly he was a seething
cauldron of wrath at the fate which had afflicted him with so useless
an appendage as Mr. Wynrod. He had been harassed enough by the change in
ownership, without that.
But fate has a queer way of settling knotty problems very suddenly and
very surprisingly. As Jenkins laughed and cursed behind the laugh, a boy
put a card on his desk.
"Maybe Good ... he might have something ..." he said to Roger
abstractedly, as he picked up the card. "Ask Mr. Good to step down
here," he called after the retreating boy. "Awful rush these days," he
murmured.
Suddenly his whole manner and expression changed completely. His
resigned annoyance was transformed into patent excitement. He fingered
the card nervously for a moment. Then he looked up at Roger, his brows
knitted.
"Would you mind excusing me for just a moment, Mr. Wynrod? There's a
gentleman here to see me ... very important...."
Roger resisted an impulse to ask who the gentleman might be who had
created such manifest consternation, and turned to leave. But as he put
his hand to the door, it opened, and Good entered.
"Hello," said the tall man, "making trouble around here already? What's
the...?"
Before he could finish, Jenkins had him by the arm and was drawing him
toward the window, whispering excitedly. Roger was as effectually
excluded from the conversation as if he had not existed. As he watched
the animated gestures of the Business Manager the strange thought struck
him that he himself was the subject of the conference. His suspicions
were confirmed when Good whistled softly, and, turning suddenly,
intimated, in a voice more authoritative than apologetic, that his
prompt withdrawal would be appreciated. Roger, deeply offended, was
about to comply, when the door opened again, and a man stood on the
threshold, twirling his mustache. Jenkins rushed forward to greet him.
"Oh, Mr. Faxon," he cried, "how are you? Glad to see you. Sit down,
won't you? I ..."
Faxon ignored the proffered chair. "Hello, Roger," he said abruptly,
"the boy said you were here. Thought I'd butt in."
"Hello, Joe," said Roger, striving to understand the tense atmosphere
which seemed to pervade the room. "I'm just bound for my office. Come on
up." He noticed with surprise that Jenkins frowned and shook his head
savagely at the invitation. "Come on, Joe," he repeated, resentful at
Jenkins' behaviour.
But as he put his hand on the doorknob, Good rushed into the breach.
"One moment, if you please, Mr. Faxon," he said smoothly. "Mr. Wynrod is
hardly familiar enough yet with things here to be of use to you
in--er--matters of business."
Faxon wheeled sharply and stared as if he had not before realised the
tall man's presence. "You'll doubtless leave that to me to discover,
won't you?" he inquired with studied insolence. Abruptly he turned again
to Roger. "Now then, may I see you--alone?"
Roger's eyes wandered from one to the other helplessly. But before he
could speak, Good came to the fore again. His jaw was set firmly and his
eyes were cold.
"See here, Mr. Faxon," he said, with characteristic disdain of subtlety,
"let's not mince matters. Jenkins and I know perfectly well what you're
here for. Wynrod doesn't. I'd suggest that we talk things over
together."
"Thanks awfully for the advice," snapped Faxon sarcastically. "But I'm
not here to see you or Mr. Jenkins. I'm here to see Mr. Wynrod. And I'm
here to see him privately--you hear--_privately_. If such a visit is not
contrary to the rules of the office, or if Mr. Wynrod is allowed to
decide such matters for himself...."
Good had kept his gaze fastened on Roger as Faxon spoke, and the flood
of colour in the young man's face at the latter's innuendo, had not been
lost on him. "You need say no more, Mr. Faxon," he interrupted
suddenly. Then he turned to Roger. "Wynrod," he said slowly, as if
measuring his words, "you know, I believe, who's boss of this paper. Act
accordingly." With a low bow to Faxon and a nod to Jenkins, who followed
him, he left the room.
"If you know who's boss," said Faxon with a sneer as the door closed,
"they apparently don't."
"Appearances are frequently deceiving," said Roger shortly.
"I hope so," snapped Faxon, his face hardening, as he drew a folded
newspaper from his pocket and threw it on the desk. "Now then, my boy,
I'd like to know the meaning of this?"
"Of what?" asked Roger quietly.
"Oh, don't stall."
"I'm not stalling."
"You mean to say you don't know?" demanded Faxon with honest
astonishment.
"You haven't seen fit as yet to tell me."
"This sentimental poppycock you've been running in _The Dispatch_ about
our strike."
"And what about it?"
Faxon's manner changed and he smiled indulgently.
"You haven't been in business very long, Roger. There are some things
you don't understand very clearly."
"Very probably."
"But there are some things, my boy, so elementary that a child could
understand them."
"In other words," said Roger coldly, "even I."
"Yes," snapped Faxon brutally, "even you."
"Well, go on."
"In the paper this morning there is a mess of stuff, probably cooked up
by that damn fool, Good, taking the side of those girls against us. Now
what I want to know is the meaning of it."
"The meaning?"
"Yes. Are you on our side or on theirs?"
"My dear Faxon," said Roger, "you have already told me how little I know
about such things. How can you expect me to answer such a question as
that? Mr. Good has my sister's confidence and mine. If he ran this
article, I believe it to be a good article. And anyway, who the hell are
you to come here asking me questions like that?" The young man's temper
had suddenly ignited. His face paled and his lips became set in a thin
straight line.
Faxon raised his hand. "Now don't get sore, Roger," he said more
affably. "I simply want to come to an understanding with you, so we know
where each other stands, that's all. Were these articles printed with
your sanction or not?" he asked slowly, tapping on the desk with his
pencil.
"I wasn't consulted," said Roger simply; "that's not my business."
"Well, damn it," roared Faxon, losing his temper, "it ought to be your
business! Isn't it your business to prevent a lot of crack-brained
idiots from making a fool out of you?"
"I don't see that they are."
"Well, everybody else sees it. Now look here, Roger. We'll overlook it
this time because it wasn't done with your knowledge or consent and you
naturally don't understand matters very clearly yet. But it can't happen
again, you hear. We won't stand for it."
"And who is supposed to be talking?" asked Roger mildly.
"Who's talking? _I'm_ talking! And I'm a vice-president of Corey &
Company. That's who's talking."
Roger shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette. "Honestly, Joe, I
don't get you at all. What's all the fuss about anyway?"
"Good God, man," cried Faxon in exasperation. He drew a long breath,
and, drawing his chair up closer to Roger's, began an elementary
explanation of certain business relationships.
In the meanwhile Bassett and Jenkins and Good sat staring moodily at one
another.
"It's a shame!" exclaimed Bassett, savagely chewing on his unlighted
cigar. "He'll twist that kid around his finger. He'll pull the wool over
his eyes forty different ways."
"Faxon's a clever fellow," mused Jenkins mournfully.
Good filled his pipe and lighted it. He smoked in silence for a little
while.
"The Lord's got to be trusted some time," he sighed finally; "I suppose
it might just as well be now--but a little more priming would have
helped. Just a little more."
"Oh, the kid will knuckle under, that's certain," snarled Bassett.
"There's no doubt of _that_. This whole proposition is doomed to
failure. It's too good to be true, altogether too good. I tell you,
Good, you're asking too much of these people. You're trying to make
water rise higher than its source. You're trying to make them prove
superior to their whole history, their environment, their friends,
everything they've got."
"People prove superior to those things every day," said Good mildly.
"Not when they have to pay as big a price as you're asking."
"Don't you know there are people who have to be made to pay a big price
before they think a thing's worth anything?"
Bassett snorted and bit his cigar clear through. "You're the damnedest,
most idiotic optimist I ever hope to see!" he cried. Then they all
laughed cheerlessly and relapsed into their moody, waiting silence.
At that very moment, in Jenkins' private office, Roger Wynrod leaned
back in his chair and lit another cigarette. He puffed thoughtfully for
a moment or two without speaking.
"See if I've got this straight, Joe," he said finally. "As I understand
your proposition, it's this: As long as we lie down and play good dog,
we're a _good_ advertising medium. When we get up and bark at something
we think ought to be barked at, then we're a _bad_ advertising medium."
"That's one way of expressing it, Roger," laughed Faxon.
Suddenly the young man's quiet, thoughtful demeanour changed. He leaned
forward and his jaw hardened. "In other words, when you spend money in
advertising with us it's merely a figure of speech. Your advertising
appropriation is a sort of slush fund. It's the price you pay for
keeping us silent on things you want kept silent. Is that straight?"
"I wouldn't put it just that way. But ..."
"Well, then, suppose,--just suppose, mind you,--suppose we continue on
the line of thought expressed in this article that irritated you people
so much this morning, what then?"
Faxon leaned forward and his fist came down on the desk with a smash.
"Wynrod," he said sharply, "Corey & Company has less than six thousand
lines of its contract with _The Dispatch_ remaining. If you continue to
attack us in this way, I can inform you that that contract will not be
renewed."
"I see," said Roger quietly.
"Furthermore," added Faxon in the same hard tone, "the contract you now
hold with Brooks, Carpenter, Weinstein, LeVigne and all the other
members of the department store association, will not be renewed as they
expire."
"I see. And if orders are given not to run anything more along this
line, what then?"
Faxon smiled. "In that case I can inform you that the pleasant relations
that have hitherto existed between _The Dispatch_ and the large stores
of this city, will continue as before."
"You tempt me, Joe," said Wynrod in what was little more than a whisper,
but with an inscrutable look in his eyes. Then he turned and walked to
the window. A faint smile of triumph flitted over Faxon's features as he
watched the young man's back. Suddenly Wynrod turned around. "Joe," he
said, very calmly but very firmly, "you've been frank with me, and now
I'll be the same with you. There are at least half a dozen reasons why I
would like to tell you to go to hell, but there's only one necessary. If
there was anything needed to stiffen my backbone, it's supplied by the
fact that you can come here attempting to give me orders. That won't go,
Joe. You came here this morning and insisted on seeing me because you
thought you could bully me. That's why you wouldn't talk to Jenkins or
Good. But you haven't sized me up right, Joe, and you'd better run back
to Corey just as fast as you can and tell him so."
The triumphant smile faded from Faxon's face and it slowly reddened.
"That means ..."
"Anything you choose to make it," said Roger quietly.
Unexpectedly Faxon changed his tactics. With a friendly smile he jumped
to his feet. "I say, Roger, you don't understand what you're saying.
There's no threatening about it. This is just a plain business talk,
pure and simple. We're friends. What's the use of getting up on your ear
and talking like that? Do you realise what it'll mean to your paper? You
can't afford to do it. I'm not talking to you, personally, you
understand. I'm talking to you as a disinterested outsider. I'm giving
you a straight tip. I'm trying to save you from making a fool of
yourself, don't you understand?"
"I understand perfectly," said Roger. "There's nothing to be said
further, is there?"
"Come now," insisted Faxon. "Don't be a clam, Roger. Let's discuss this
thing quietly and get to the bottom of it."
"I have nothing further to say," said Roger coldly. "Have you?"
Faxon looked at him helplessly for a moment and when he saw the
determination plainly evident in the young man's face and realised that
there was no further purpose in discussion, he took his hat. "You're a
fine young demigod now, Roger," he sneered. "But wait. Bigger men than
you have tried this game before. They've broken--every one of them."
Faxon paused in the doorway as if he would say more, but Roger had
already turned his back upon him. With an oath he slammed the door.
"I wonder what he takes me for," murmured Roger. "Thinks I'm a child
does he ... got another think, I guess." Then he went in search of Good
and Jenkins.
His sense of isolation and futility seemed to have deserted him utterly.
For the first time in his life he felt himself at grips with a man's
reality. Disdaining the elevator he skipped up the stairs to Bassett's
office with his heart full of a curious exaltation such as he had never
experienced before. Like a boy, but feeling very much a man, he burst
into the editor's office.
"Good Lord," he cried, as he saw their sombre countenances, "who's
dead?"
"Well, what happened?" asked Jenkins perfunctorily, as if he knew the
answer already.
"Oh, we fixed things up beautifully," said Roger, lightly.
"Of course," muttered Bassett under his breath, "I knew you would."
Though Good did not speak, the question was in his expression. Roger saw
it, and a light came into his eyes which none of them had ever seen
there before.
"I hope you've got some more of that stuff on the girls for to-morrow,"
he said quietly. "Go after 'em strong."
Then, while the others sat thunderstruck, he drew a cigarette from his
case and lighted it, deliberately.
[Illustration: "I say, you know," he said between puffs, "business is
the--greatest--game--in the world."]
"I say, you know," he said, between puffs, "business is
the--greatest--game--in the world."