Georgia's desk was in a rectangular room which was over one hundred
feet long and half as wide. There was light on three sides. Near the
ceiling was a series of little gratings, each with a small silkoline
American flag in front of it. These flags were constantly fluttering,
indicating forced ventilation; so that although the desks were near
together and the place contained its full complement of busy people,
there was plenty of oxygen for them.
This arrangement was designed primarily for economic rather than
philanthropic purposes. The increased average output of work due to
the fresh air yielded a satisfactory interest on the cost of the
ventilating apparatus; and, besides, it impressed customers favorably
and had a tendency to hold employes. The office dealt in life
insurance.
The desks were mounted on castors so that they could be wheeled out of
the way at night while the tiled floor was being washed down with hose
and long-handled mops and brooms and sometimes sand, as sailors
holystone a deck. Much of the hands-and-knees scrubbing was in this
way done away with.
Rubber disks hinged against the desks and set to the floor held them in
place during working hours. Narrow black right-angular marks showed
where each desk belonged and to what point, exactly, it must be moved
back when the nightly cleaning was finished.
These details were all of profound interest to Georgia, for her desk
was the most important thing in the world to her at this time in her
life.
She delighted in neatness, order, precision, in the adjustment of the
means to the end. Every morning just before nine, she punched the
clock, which gave her a professional feeling; and hung her hat and
jacket in locker 31, which seemed to her a better, a more
self-respecting place for them to be than her small, untidy bedroom
closet, all littered up with so many things--hers and Jim's.
Her mother, who kept house for them, was a good deal at loose ends, in
Georgia's opinion. And it didn't seem quite the decent thing that a
woman who had nothing else in the world to do should fail to keep a
six-room flat in order. Of course her mother was getting a little old,
but hardly too old to do that.
Georgia had lately had a trial promotion to "take" the general agent's
letters--the previous functionary, a tall blonde girl, having married
very well.
It was the first stenographic position in the office and carried the
best salary, so there was a good deal of human jealousy about it--much
the same sort as freshmen feel who are out for the class eleven.
Georgia had tried her hardest for five days. She had stayed overtime
to rewrite whole pages for the sake of a single omitted letter; she had
bought half a dozen severely plain shirt waists, and yielded up her
puffs. Everyone knew how the old man hated the first sign of nonsense.
But in spite of all that the day before he had called in Miss Gerson to
take his dictation.
Well--it was pretty hard, but she had done her best. And she was a
better workman than Miss Gerson, she would stick to that. Only
yesterday she had seen Miss G. twice hunting in a pocket dictionary
hidden in her lap--and she never had to do that, practically.
Life was just one damn thing after another, as Jim was always
complaining--only he could never possibly have apprehended the full
truth and implication of that saying--in spite of its rather common way
of putting it. She knew that he never saw deeply, really fundamentally
into the dreadful mystery of being here; he couldn't for he was coarse
and masculine and he drank.
Her fingers were working rapidly casting up purple letter after purple
letter before her eyes, but the physiologists tell us that she was
using only the front part of her brain for it. The rest of it was free
to contemplate the Ultimate Purpose, or gross favoritism in the office
especially in relation to Miss Gerson, or whether an ice cream soda was
a silly thing to have before lunch, as she knew it was, but then one
had to have some pleasure.
Rat-tat-tat-tat went the keys; ding, there was her bell. Ten letters
more on this line said the front part of her brain. One thing she was
sure of, said the back, she devoutly hoped her young brother Al
wouldn't develop into a mere white-collared clerk--though of course she
certainly wanted him to be always a gentleman. She slid her carriage
for the new line.
Rat-tat-tat-tat--and again, ding. There, the end of the page. Single
space and not an error. She would like to see Miss Gerson do that at
her speed.
The shuffle of the old man's office boy sounded behind her. Now,
wait--what would to-day's verdict be? Would he pass or stop?
"Miss Connor," a-a-ah--"the old man wants you to take some letters."
(Georgia had let them suppose she was unmarried.)
The benison of perfect peace now enfolded her.
Poor little Miss Gerson--well, after all, life is a game, the loser
pays, and the winner can be perfectly philosophical about it.
Georgia went to the old man's private office and closed the door behind
her.
"Yes, sir." She stood at attention, pad and pencil ready.
"Will you take these please, Miss Connor? Mr. James Serviss--here's
his address," the old man tossed the letter he was answering over to
her. "Dear Sir: Replying to yours of the 16th inst, we regret
that----. Well, tell him it's impossible. Write the letter yourself.
You understand!" He was observing her as if to probe her
resourcefulness.
"Perfectly, sir."
"Miss Belmont saved me a great deal of trouble in that way. She could
tell what I would want to say." Miss Belmont was the blonde girl who
had married and left a vacancy.
"I can do the same, sir."
"Well, here are some more," continued the old man. "This--No." He
tossed another letter to her. She made a shorthand notation in the
corner of it. "This--By all means,--and be polite about it. This--An
appointment to-morrow afternoon."
"Yes, sir."
"This--Routine. And these--Send them to the proper departments." More
notations.
"Yes, sir."
"You can start on those. Bring them in when they're ready."
"Yes, sir." Exit Georgia.
She summoned the deeper layers of her vitality, settled to her work and
her fingers flew. She knew the joy--if joy it be--of creation.
Quietly she slipped back into the old man's office, without knocking.
His secretary had entrance except at such times as he shut his
telephone off.
She seemed very slim and neat, and calm and steady--almost prim,
perhaps, as she stood with pen and blotter in her hand to take the old
man's signatures.
But her being surged within her like that of a mother who waits to hear
if her boy is to be expelled from school or forgiven.
The old man had been going over a campaign plan for business with one
of his quickest witted solicitors, and after Georgia had waited
standing for a few moments, dismissed him with, "Yes, that's the right
line, Stevens. Just keep plugging along it."
As Stevens passed her on his way out he bowed slightly. He had been
doing that for some time now, though he had not yet spoken to her.
Stevens was still under thirty, she concluded, though she had heard he
had been with the company for ten years. A silent, sharp-featured,
tall young fellow with chilly blue eyes, who had the name in the office
of keeping himself to himself and being all business.
The old man, having glanced over and signed the letters, passed his
verdict on her work--"Hmm, hmm, Miss Connor, you may move your things
to Miss Belmont's desk. And here's a note----"
When an author conquers a stage manager; or Atchison rises 4% the very
next day; or the Cubs bat it out in the tenth on a darkening September
afternoon; when on the third and last trial, it's a boy; or when
Handsome Harry Matinee returns you his curled likeness _signed_; or you
first sip Mai Wein, you know what it is to move your things to Miss
Belmont's desk.
"And here's a note," continued the old man, without the gap which we
have made to put in analogues, "to Mr. Edward Miles--I'd better dictate
this one myself--'Dear Mr. Miles: I should be happy to have you call--'
No, strike that out. 'In response to your letter of even date, I
should be glad to see you at any time that suits you, here in my
office--' no, make it three o'clock to-morrow afternoon--'to confer
over the subject of the Senatorial campaign in your district.' Read
what you've got."
Georgia did so.
The old man changed his eyeglasses. "Maybe you'd better telephone him
instead," he said. "It's Ed Miles, the politician. You can probably
locate him at----"
"Yes, sir, I know," suggested Georgia.
"And get Mr. Somers on the phone--Mr. Somers does some of our legal
work----"
"Yes, sir."
"And ask him to be here at the same time. Make a note of it on my list
of appointments."
"Yes, sir."
"Tell him Miles is coming, and to get up a little résumé for me of the
situation in those districts over there, and ah--perhaps an estimate in
a general way of what we ought to do for, ah--Mr. Miles. You will
indicate that to him."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, telephone him that." Georgia rose and went to the door.
"Ah--Miss Connor----" She turned and looked at her employer, her head
tilted forward, with a peculiar open-eyed, steady little stare, which
was a trick of hers when wholly interested.
"Did I indicate to you," said he, "that you are my _private_ secretary
now?"
"I understand, sir. Thank you."