Next evening, having been invited to come to dinner and bring some
blueprints, Jimmy Hogg quietly expressed his deep delight at his chum’s
safe return. Three years had confirmed Jimmy’s thoroughbred countenance
in all its native unmagnetic hardness, but there was faithful friendship
hidden there.
After dinner he was invited up to Marvin’s room, and there he spread out
the patterns of his ponderous upstanding punch-presses. He stood
twirling a pencil while Marvin figured out for himself the ingenious
device by which Jimmy had stopped the almost daily accidents. The device
was simple enough. Jimmy’s machines could not be started except by
pressing two buttons that stood far apart, and so at the critical moment
both hands were removed from danger.
More talk made it clear that James Endicott Hogg, though very modest
about it, was on his way to an important departmental managership. It
was also clear that he did not believe in profit-sharing, and that he
would never admit workmen to the slightest share in administration. He
was hard to the point of brittleness.
Yet he was not heartless. Though he could not be driven, he could be
led. Though hard, he was ductile—a contradiction in terms till one
thinks of a certain steel alloy which can be drawn out but which cannot
be shaped except by grinding. The workman who demanded least
consideration from Jimmy would probably receive the most.
But some ductility comes not save by shock, and this is noticeably true
of family pride. Having something pretty personal to say to Jimmy,
Marvin finally concluded to try the heat and shock method.
“I wish that instead of being named Mahan I had been named Onions.”
Jimmy merely lifted his eyebrows.
“Yes, Onions. In France I knew a chap so called, and it proved to be
because his forefathers came from Auvergne. There may be other Onions,
but doubtless their origin is equally respectable. Now, I am Marvin
because my mother was a Marvin, but ‘Mahan’ means a bear. I say it’s an
insult.”
“The word Mahan,” replied Jimmy, “does not mean a bear. It means a
friend of mine.”
“You are no friend of mine when you flatly contradict me. You are so
damned self-satisfied that you have no regard for my feelings. I don’t
like to be contradicted and I don’t like to be called a bear.”
“The word Mahan,” calmly repeated Jimmy, “does not mean a bear. Neither
does Hogg mean a hog. Nobody thinks of the origin of a name.”
“Where did your grandfather come from?”
“Hants.”
“What was he doing in Hants?”
“Feeding hogs in the New Forest, perhaps. The place is full of acorns,
and I daresay his ancestors were swineherds.”
“Well, you can’t help being a hog-keeper’s son, but I don’t see why you
need boast of it. You’re probably wrong, anyhow. If you consulted some
philologist, you’d probably learn that Hogg is a French word.”
“Hogg is not a French word. If a man doesn’t like it, he doesn’t have to
know me.”
“Well, I don’t like it. And I’m not the only one who doesn’t. Do you
wish some day to be called the parent of piglings?”
Jimmy’s face grew much pinker than manganous salts. He knew that his
friend was only up to his old tricks, but this was pretty raw stuff. It
was rotten bad taste to rag a man about his name—just as bad as to ask
questions about a mutilated stump. But Jimmy gave voice to none of these
sentiments. His heavy jaw was set, his small lips were compressed until
he thought of the proper parliamentary phrase.
“Marvin, I suppose we are all descended from serfs, but I’m not
responsible for forms of ridicule indulged in by swineherds of the
present day.”
“James, James, I blush to hear you call your philanthropic employer a
swineherd.”
“What—” but Jimmy did not finish the question. He remained haughtily and
hotly silent until he could once more speak like a gentleman.
“I was not aware that you knew Mr. Ferry.”
“I did not until a few days ago. I went to his house to ask his daughter
to marry me. He couldn’t quite see it, but his manners were not those of
a swineherd.”
Silence. Jimmy’s self control was perfect now, but his wrath was
coruscating.
“I saw Gratia later, and she refused me.”
Instantly the heat was quenched.
“She refused me because she did not love me. Of course if she loved a
man, she’d marry him no matter how impossible a name he bore. I asked
her one or two questions about you, and she timidly expressed a wish
that hogs were woolly. I don’t think you can blame girls for such
feelings. They’re sensitive, you know.”
“Yes,” said Jimmy. “Finer organization.”
“You bet. Now, wouldn’t your mother’s name do just as well for you as
your father’s?”
“I’m not an Endicott, but perhaps I could spell my last name ‘Hogue.’ Do
you think that would please her?”
“I’m sure it would.”