The means of weakness and debility.
--Orison Swett Marden (?)
“Before you call Mr. Foster,” said the secretary, “Mr. Schmaltz of the
Pullman Company is here to see you; he arrived just before you came in.
He says he wants to place a large order for the cuspidorados.”
“Send him in,” said Mr. Veal, chuckling. “Hello, Schmaltz,” he cried, as
the customer entered. “How's this for weather?”
“Great stuff!” said Schmaltz. “Makes us old fellows feel almost young
again, doesn't it?”
Mr. Veal's face grew dark. He aged ten years in the instant. He pointed
morosely to a chair.
“Mr. Veal,” said the other, “we want to place an order for ten thousand
of the cuspidorados. Can you give us the old price?”
“I can _not_,” said Mr. Veal, shortly. “Materials have gone to the sky.
I can't give you the--the old price. I'll give you a young price, a very
young one indeed, based on the present state of the market. Eighteen and
a quarter cents is the best I can do.”
Mr. Schmaltz raised racial hands. “Heavens!” he said, “you used to let
us have them for fourteen and a half. Why, in the old days----”
Mr. Veal pounded the desk with his fist.
“If you use that world _old_ again, I'll assassinate you with a dish
of ham!” he roared. “Great pigs' knuckles, what do you think this is, a
home for the aged?”
*****
After Mr. Schmaltz had gone Mr. Veal sent for Foster, the foreman of the
manufacturing department.
“Well,” he said, “how about those machines?”
“Mr. Veal,” said Foster, “we'll have to replace at least six of those
Victor stampers. They're so old they simply can't do the work. You know
when one of those machines is over five years old----”
Mr. Veal was pointing to the door.
“Get out!” he said.
At lunch-time Mr. Veal went up to the club as usual. Swinging up the
street, in the bright sun and pellucid air, he felt quite cheerful, and
stopped to buy himself a rhinoceros cane. In the dining room of the club
he met Edwards, and they sat down together.
“Hello, old man,” said Edwards. “You're looking chipper for a veteran.
Played any golf yet this year?”
“I don't play,” said Mr. Veal.
“Don't you? That's a mistake. It's the only game for us older fellows.
Of course we can't score like the youngsters; but still we can get round
and have a deal of fun----”
Mr. Veal clenched his fists. Spilling his soup, he leaped up and rushed
from the room. He seized his coat and hat, forgetting the new cane, and
fled to the nearest Turkish bath.
*****
And all because, when going downstairs in the railway terminal that
morning, he had heard a man behind him say to another:
“There goes Veal! He's beginning to look old, isn't he?”
It was the first time in his life Mr. Veal had heard the damnable
adjective applied to himself in earnest.
Wait until _your_ turn comes!