That aërial kiss proved more intoxicating to Quin than all the more
tangible ones he had ever received. It sent him swaggering through the
next few months with his head in the air and his heart on fire. Nothing
could stop him now, he told himself boastfully. Old Bangs was showing him
signal favor, Madam Bartlett was his staunch friend, Mr. Ranny and the
aunties were his allies, and even if Miss Nell didn't care for him yet,
she didn't care for anybody else, and when a girl like Miss Nell looks at
a fellow the way she had looked at him----
At this rapturous point he invariably abandoned cold prose for poetry and
burst into song.
Almost every week brought him a letter from Eleanor--not the romantic,
carefully penned epistles she had indited to Harold Phipps, but hasty
scrawls often dashed off with a pencil. In them she described her absurd
attempts at housekeeping in the little two-room apartment; her absorbing
experiences in the dramatic school; all the ups and downs of her
wonderful new life. She was evidently enjoying her freedom, but Quin
flattered himself that between the lines he could find evidences of
discouragement, of homesickness, and of the coming disillusionment on
which he was counting to bring her home when her six months of study were
over.
It was only when Rose read him Papa Claude's lengthy effusions that his
heart misgave him. Papa Claude announced that Eleanor was sweeping
everything before her at the dramatic school, where her beauty and talent
were causing much comment, and that he had not been mistaken when he had
foreseen her destiny, and, "single-handed against the world," forced its
fulfilment.
Usually, upon reading one of Papa Claude's pyrotechnical efforts, Quin
went to see Madam Bartlett. After all, he and the old lady were paddling
in the same canoe, and their only chance of success was in pulling
together.
As the end of the six months of probation approached, Madam became more
and more anxious. Ever since Eleanor's high-handed departure she had been
undergoing a metamorphosis. Like most autocrats, the only things of which
she took notice were the ones that impeded her progress. When they proved
sufficiently formidable to withstand annihilation, she awarded them the
respect that was their due. Eleanor's childish whim, heretofore crushed
under her disapprobation, now loomed as a terrifying possibility. The
girl had proved her mettle by living through the winter on a smaller
allowance than Madam paid her cook. She had shown perseverance and pluck,
and an amazing ability to get along without the aid of the family. In a
few months she would be of age, and with the small legacy left her by her
spendthrift father, would be in a position to snap her fingers in the
face of authority.
"If it weren't for that fool Phipps I'd have her home in twenty-four
hours," Madam declared to Quin. "She'll be wanting to take a professional
engagement next."
Quin tried to reassure her, but his words rang hollow. He too was growing
anxious as the months passed and Eleanor showed no sign of returning. He
longed to throw his influence with Madam's in trying to induce her to
come back before it was too late. The only thing that deterred him was
his sense of fair play to Eleanor.
"You let Miss Nell work it out for herself," he advised; "don't threaten,
her or persuade her or bribe her. Leave her alone. She's got more common
sense than you think. I bet she'll get enough of it by May."
"Well, if she doesn't, I'm through with her, and you can tell her so. I
meant to make Eleanor a rich woman, but, mark my word, if she goes on the
stage I'll rewrite my will and cut her off without a penny. I'll even
entail what I leave Isobel and Enid. I'll make her sorry for what she's
done!"
But with the approach of spring it was Madam who was sorry and not
Eleanor. Quin's sympathies were roused every time he saw the old lady.
Her affection and anxiety fought constantly against her pride and
bitterness. For hours at a time she would talk to him about Eleanor,
hungrily snatching at every crumb of news, and yet refusing to pen a line
of conciliation.
"If she can do without me, I can do without her," she would say
stubbornly.
Quin's business brought him to the Bartlett home oftener than usual these
days. For twenty years Madam and Mr. Bangs, as partners in the firm of
Bartlett & Bangs, had tried to run in opposite directions on the same
track, with the result that head-on collisions were of frequent
occurrence. Since Randolph Bartlett's retirement from the firm, Quin had
succeeded him as official switchman, and had proven himself an adept. His
skill in handling the old lady was soon apparent to Mr. Bangs, who lost
no time in utilizing it.
One afternoon in April, when Quin was busily employed at his desk, his
eyes happened to fall upon a calendar, the current date of which was
circled in red ink. The effect of the discovery was immediate. His
energetic mood promptly gave way to one of extreme languor, and his gaze
wandered from the papers in his hand across the grimy roof tops.
This time last year he and Miss Nell had made their first pilgrimage to
Valley Mead. It was just such a day as this, warm and lazy, with big
white clouds loafing off there in the west. He wondered if the peach
trees were in bloom now, and whether the white violets were coming up
along the creek-bank. How happy and contented Miss Nell always seemed in
the country! She had never known before what the outdoor life was like.
How he would like to take her hunting for big game up in the Maine woods,
or camping out in the Canadian Rockies with old Cherokee Jo for a guide!
Or better still,--here his fancy bolted completely,--if he could only
slip with her aboard a transport and make a thirty days' voyage through
the South Seas!
It was at this transcendent stage of his reveries that a steely voice at
his elbow observed:
"You seem to be finding a great deal to interest you in that smokestack,
young man!"
Quin descended from his height with brisk embarrassment.
"Anything you wanted, sir?" he asked.
Mr. Bangs looked about cautiously to make sure that nobody was in
ear-shot, then he said abruptly:
"I want you to come out to my place with me for overnight. I want to talk
with you."
Quin's amazement at this request was so profound that for a moment he did
not answer. Surmises as to the nature of the business ranged from summary
dismissal to acceptance into the firm. Never in his experience at the
factory had any employee been recognized unofficially by Mr. Bangs. To
all appearances, he lived in a large limousine which deposited him at the
office at exactly eight-thirty and collected him again on the stroke of
four. Rumor hinted, however, that he owned a place in the suburbs, and
that the establishment was one that did not invite publicity.
"Very well, sir," said Quin. "What time shall I be ready?"
"We will start at once," said Mr. Bangs, leading the way to the door.
On the drive out, Quin's efforts at conversation met with small
encouragement. Mr. Bangs responded only when he felt like it, and did not
scruple to leave an observation, or even a question, permanently
suspended in an embarrassing silence. Quin soon found it much more
interesting to commune with himself. It was exciting to conjecture what
was about to happen, and what effect it would have on his love affair. If
he got a raise, would he be justified in putting his fate to the test?
All spring he had fought the temptation of going to New York in the hope
that by waiting he would have more to offer. If by any miracle of grace
Miss Nell should yield him the slightest foothold, he must be prepared to
storm the citadel and take possession at once.
The abrupt turn of the automobile into a somber avenue of locusts
recalled him to the present, and he looked about him curiously. Mr. Bangs
had not been satisfied to build his habitation far from town; he had
taken, the added precaution to place it a mile back from the road. It was
a somewhat pretentious modern house, half hidden by a high hedge. The
window-shades were drawn, the doors were closed. The only signs of life
about the place were a porch chair, still rocking as if from recent
occupation, and a thin blue scarf that had evidently been dropped in
sudden flight.
Mr. Bangs let himself in with a latch-key, and led the way into a big
dreary room that was evidently meant for a library. A handsome suite of
regulation mahogany furniture did its best to justify the room's claim to
its title, but rows of empty bookshelves yawned derision at the pretense.
Mr. Bangs lit the electrolier, and, motioning Quin to a chair, sat down
heavily. Now that he had achieved a guest, he seemed at a loss to know
what to do with him.
"Do you play chess?" he asked abruptly.
"I can play 'most anything," Quin boasted. "Poker's my specialty."
For an hour they bent over the chess-board, and Quin was conscious of
those piercing black eyes studying him and grimly approving when he made
a good play. For the first time, he began to rather like Mr. Bangs, and
to experience a thrill of satisfaction in winning his good opinion.
Only once was the game interrupted. The colored chauffeur who had driven
them out came to the door and asked:
"Shall I lay the table for two or three, sir?"
Mr. Bangs lifted his head long enough to give him one annihilating
glance.
"I have but one guest," he said significantly. "Set the table for two."
The dinner was one of the best Quin had ever tasted, and his frank
enjoyment of it, and franker comment, seemed further to ingratiate him
with Mr. Bangs, who waxed almost agreeable in discussing the various
viands.
After dinner they returned to the library and lit their cigars, and Quin
waited hopefully.
This time he was not to be disappointed.
"Graham," said Mr. Bangs, "what salary are you drawing?"
"One hundred and fifty, sir."
"How long have you been at the factory?"
"A year last February."
"Not so long as I thought. You are satisfied, I take it?"
Quin saw his chance and seized it.
"It's all right until I can get something better."
Mr. Bangs relit his cigar, and took his time about it. Then he blew out
the match and threw it on the floor.
"I am looking for a new traffic manager," he said.
"What's the matter with Mr. Shields?" Quin inquired in amazement.
"I have fired him. He talks too much. I want a man to manage traffic, not
to superintend a Sunday-school."
"But Mr. Shields has been there for years!"
"That's the trouble. I want a younger man--one who is abreast of the
times, familiar with modern methods."
Quin's heart leaped within him. Could Mr. Bangs be intimating that he,
Quinby Graham, with one year and four months' experience, might step over
the heads of all of those older and more experienced aspirants into the
empty shoes of the former traffic manager?
The South Seas seemed to flow just around the corner.
"I have been considering the matter," continued Mr. Bangs, catching a
white moth between his thumb and forefinger and taking apparent pleasure
in its annihilation, "and I've decided not to get a new man in for the
summer, but to let you take the work for the present and see what you can
do with it."
Quin's joy was so swift and sudden that even the formidable banks of Mr.
Bangs's presence could not keep it from overflowing.
"I can handle it as easy as falling off a log!" he cried excitedly. "I
know every State in the Union and then some. Of course, I hate to see old
Shields go, but he _is_ a slow-coach. I'll put it all over him! You'll
see if I don't!"
"I am not so sure about that," said Mr. Bangs. "Shields had the sense to
do what he was told without arguing the matter."
Quin laughed joyously. "Right you are!" he agreed. "I'd have come out of
the service with a couple of bars on my shoulders if I hadn't argued so
much. I don't know what gets into me, but when I see a better way of
running things I just have to say so."
"Well, I don't want you to say so to me," warned Mr. Bangs. "There are
certain business methods that we've got to observe, whether we like them
or not. Take the matter of listing freight, for instance. That's where
Shields fell down. He knows perfectly well that there isn't a successful
firm in the country that doesn't classify its stuff under the head that
calls for the lowest freight rates."
"How do you mean?"
Mr. Bangs proceeded to explain, concluding his remarks with the
observation that you couldn't afford to be too particular in these
matters.
"But it is beating the railroads, isn't it?"
"The railroads can afford it. They lose no chance to gouge the
manufacturers. It's like taxes. The government knows that everybody is
going to dodge them, and so it allows for it. Nobody is deceived, and
nobody is the worse for it. Human nature is what it is, and you can't
change it."
"Does the traffic manager have to classify the exports?" Quin asked.
"Certainly; that and routing the cars is his principal business. It's a
difficult and responsible position in many ways, and I have my doubts
about your being able to fill it."
"I can fill it all right," said Quin, as confidently as before, but with
a certain loss of enthusiasm. Upon the shining brows of his great
opportunity he had spied the incipient horns of a dilemma.
For the next two hours Mr. Bangs explained in detail the duties of the
new position, going into each phase of the matter with such efficient
thoroughness that Quin forgot his scruples in his absorbed interest in
the recital. It was no wonder, he said to himself, that Mr. Bangs was one
of the most successful manufacturers in the South. A man who was not only
an executive and administrator, but who could make with his own hands the
most complicated farming implement in his factory, was one to command
respect. Even if he did not like him personally, it was a great thing to
work under him, to have his approval, to be trusted by him.
When Quin went up to his room at eleven o'clock, his head was whirling
with statistics and other newly acquired facts, which he spent an hour
recording in his note-book.
It was not until he went to bed and lay staring into the darkness that
the mental tumult subsided and the moral tumult began. The questions that
he had resolutely kept in abeyance all evening began to dance in impish
insistence before him. What right had he to take Shields's place, when he
had said exactly the things that Shields had been fired for saying? Did
he want to go the way Shields had gone, compromising with his conscience
in order to keep his job, ashamed to face his fellow man, cringing,
remorseful, unhappy?
Then Mr. Bangs's arguments came back to him, specious, practical,
convincing. Business was like politics; you could keep out if you didn't
like it, but if you went in you must play the game as others played it or
lose out. Five hundred a month! Why, a fellow wouldn't be ashamed to ask
even a rich girl to marry him on that! The thought was balm to his pride.
As he lay there thinking, he was conscious of a disturbing sound in the
adjoining room, and he lifted his head to listen. It sounded like some
one crying--not a violent outburst, but the hopeless, steady sobbing of
despair. His thoughts flew back to that blue scarf on the porch, to the
inquiry about an extra seat at the table. They were true, then, those
rumors about the lonely, unhappy woman whom Mr. Bangs had kept a virtual
prisoner for years. Quin wondered if she was young, if she was pretty. A
fierce sympathy for her seized him as he listened to her sobs on the
other side of the wall. What a beast a man was to put a woman in a
position like that!
His wrath, thus kindled, threw Mr. Bangs's other characteristics into
startling relief. He saw him at the head of his firm, hated and despised
by every employee. He saw him deceiving Madam Bartlett, sneering at Mr.
Ranny's efforts at reform, terrorizing little Miss Leaks. Then he had a
swift and relentless vision of himself in his new position, a well
trained automaton, expected to execute Mr. Bangs's orders not only in the
factory but in the Bartlett household as well.
He tossed restlessly on his pillow. If only that woman would stop crying,
perhaps he could get a better line on the thing! But she did not stop,
and somehow while she cried he could see nothing good in Bangs or what he
stood for. Hour after hour his ambition and his love fought against his
principles, and dawn found him still awake, staring at the ceiling.
Going back to town after an early breakfast, he said to Mr. Bangs:
"I've been thinking it over, sir, and if you don't mind I think I'll keep
the position I've got."
"What do you mean?" demanded Mr. Bangs. "You decline the promotion?"
"I am afraid I am not the man for the job," said Quin.
"That's for me to decide."
Quin was visibly embarrassed. After his enthusiasm of the night before,
his present attitude called for an explanation.
"Well, you see," he said awkwardly, "it may be good business and all
that, but there are some things a fellow can't do when he feels about
them the way I do."
"Meaning, I suppose, that your standards are so much higher than those of
the rest of us that you cannot trade in the market-place?"
"No, sir; I don't mean anything of the kind," Quin flashed back, hot at
the accusations of self-righteousness, but unable to defend himself
without criticizing his employer.
"And this is final? You've definitely decided?"
"I have."
"Very well; I am through with you." And Mr. Bangs unfolded his newspaper
and read it the rest of the way to the city.
At the office door he was dismounting from the car with his silence still
unbroken, when Quin asked nervously:
"Shall I go on with my old job, sir?"
Mr. Bangs wheeled upon him, his eyes like fiery gimlets.
"No!" he thundered. "You needn't go on with anything! For six months I
have wasted time trying to teach you something about business. I've
pushed you along faster than your ability warranted. I've given you a
chance to quadruple your salary. And what is the result? You give me a
lot of hot air about your conscience. Why don't you get a soap-box and
preach on the street-corners? You can draw your money and go. There is no
room on my pay-roll for angels!"
And, with a contemptuous shrug, he passed into the factory, leaving Quin
standing dazed and appalled on the sidewalk.