BOJO HUNTS A JOB
"Well, now to hunt a job!"
He woke up the next morning with this one idea dominant, dressed to a
whistling accompaniment, and came gaily to breakfast. A load seemed to
have been suddenly lifted from his mind, the day fair and the future
keen with the zest of a good fight without favors. The breakfast was
delicious and the air alive with energy.
"Seems to me you're looking rather cocky," said Marsh, studying him with
surprise.
"Never felt fitter in my life," said Bojo, stealing a roll from DeLancy,
who had completely lost his good spirits.
"What's up? Going to trim the market again?"
Bojo laughed, a free and triumphant laugh.
"Never again for me!" He added quickly, remembering the attitude they
had assumed for DeLancy's benefit: "Luck's been with me long enough--
I'm not going to bank on luck any more!"
Fred pushed his plate from him and went into the outer room without
meeting their glances.
"I say, Bojo, one thing we ought to do," said Marsh under his breath:
"get after the infant and give him a solemn dressing-down."
"You don't suppose he's fool enough to try the market again?"
"Who knows what he'll do?" said Marsh gloomily. "Sometimes I think it
would have kept him out of more trouble if you'd let him be cleaned out!
"You mean Louise Varney-- Good Lord!"
"Exactly!"
"Do you think he suspects?" said Bojo, after a moment's hesitation--"I
mean about his taking a profit?"
"Of course," said Marsh quietly.
"Poor devil! Well, heavens, I can't criticize him," said Bojo, moodily.
"I pretty near did the same thing."
"What are you going to do now?" said Marsh, to keep the conversation
clear of disturbing memories.
"Going to start in on a new job."
"What?" said Marsh, surprised.
"Oh, I'm going to look around," said Bojo in an offhand sort of way. "I
want something solid and real--constructive is the word. Well, Roscy,
wish me good luck-- I'm starting to look over the field this morning."
He rose confident and happy, slapping his friend on the shoulder, with
the old boyish exhilaration. "By Jove, I'm glad to have it over and to
begin a real life!"
"Give you a try at reporting," said Marsh.
"Not on your life. I'm going out for something myself! Hello there, old
Freddie-boy! Got your hair on straight? Well, then, come on and tell
Wall Street what to do."
An hour later, still full of confidence, he took the bull by the horns
and entered the offices of Stoughton and Bird. Young Stoughton was of
his social crowd, and the father had been particularly agreeable to him
on the several occasions on which he had dined at their home. The house
was known for its conservatism, dealing in solid investments.
"Hello, Skeeter," said Bojo, giving young Stoughton his college
nickname. "Is the Governor busy--could he see me ten minutes?"
They were in a vast outer chamber with junior members installed at
distant desks, the telephone ringing at every moment.
"I think you've caught him right," said Stoughton, shaking his hand
cordially. "Wait a moment-- I'll 'phone in." He nodded presently. "Sure
enough--go right in."
Stoughton, senior, a short, well-groomed man, club-man and whip, pumped
his hand affably with the smiling relaxation of one who throws off
momentarily the professional manner.
"Glad to see you, Tom. I was asking Jo yesterday what had become of you.
Well, what have you got up your sleeve? You look mighty important. Want
to sell me a railroad in Mexico or half of a Western State?"
"Nothing like that," said Tom, laughing and at his ease at once. "What
I'm looking for is a job."
"You don't mean it," said Stoughton in surprise.
"I want to get experience along solid lines," said Bojo confidentially.
"In conservative financing and investments. I don't know whether you've
got anything open, but if you have I'd like to apply."
"I see." Stoughton nodded, plainly perplexed. "Does that mean you've
left--"
"Hauk and Flaspoller--yes."
Stoughton frowned.
"That's poor Charlie Forshay's firm, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"They were caught pretty hard in Pittsburgh & New Orleans," said
Stoughton meditatively. "Yes, I remember. Were you caught too?"
"I was."
"What were you getting there?"
"Of course I don't expect to get what I was making there--not just at
present," said Bojo magnanimously. "I was getting as much as one hundred
and twenty-five a week at the end."
"No," said Stoughton, without the flicker of a smile, "you can't expect
that." The social affability had faded. Gradually he had withdrawn into
a quiet defensive attitude, tinged with curiosity. "By the way, you
don't mind my asking a discreet question? Why don't you try Drake?"
Bojo could not give an answer which would reveal too much, but he
contented himself with saying frankly:
"Why, Mr. Stoughton, I'd rather not ask favors. I'd like to work this
out for myself."
"Right," said Stoughton, brightening. Still beaming, he added: "Wish we
had a place for you here. Unfortunately, our system is rather complex
and we start a man at the bottom. Of course we wouldn't offer you
anything like that. You're out of the ten-dollar-a-week class. Besides,
you've got friends--good connections. Lots of firms would be glad to get
you."
"I want to get into something sound. I want to keep away from just
brokers," said Bojo, much cheered.
"And you're right," said Stoughton, nodding. He drew out a card and
penciled it. "You know Harding and Stonebach? Harding's a good friend of
mine--give him this card. They're what you want--make a specialty of
development, electric plants, street railways, and that sort of thing.
Big future for a young fellow who's got a talent for constructive
organization."
"That's just what I want," said Bojo, delighted. He shook hands,
thanking him effusively.
Mr. Harding was in but asked him to call after lunch. He wandered about
the Wall Street district, stopping to chat with several acquaintances on
the curb, and ate lunch, finding it hard to kill time. Back at the
appointment, he was forced to sit, shifting restlessly, watching the
clock hands make a slow full revolution before his name was called. This
enforced wait, stealing glances at the flitting procession of purposeful
visitors and the two or three oldish men, neither impatient nor very
hopeful, who came after him, biding their turn, somehow robbed him of
all his confidence. His head was weary with the click of typewriters and
the fire of his assurance out. He tried to state his case concisely and
promptly, and felt hurried and embarrassed.
In two minutes he was out in the hall again, the interview for which he
had waited a day, over. Mr. Harding, with incisive, businesslike
despatch, had taken his card and noted his address, promising to notify
him if occasion arose. He understood it was a dismissal. As he went out,
one of the oldish men arose without emotion at the new summons, folding
his newspaper and pocketing his spectacles. Bojo returned to the Court,
essaying to laugh down his disappointment, yielding already to the
subtle depression of being a straggler and watching the army sweep by.
The next day he continued his quest, the next and all of that week.
Sometimes he met with curt refusal that left a scar on his pride;
sometimes he seemed to gain headway and have opportunity almost on his
fingers until somehow, sooner or later, in the categorical questioning
it transpired that his last venture had been with a firm of speculative
brokers who had been caught and squeezed. Gradually it dawned upon him
that there was something strange in the resulting sudden shift of
attitude, a superstition of the Street itself, a gambler's dread of
failure, an instinctive horror of any one who had been touched with
misfortune, as the living hurry from the dead. The feeling of loneliness
began to creep over him. Alarmed, he steadfastly refused all week-end
invitations.
One Sunday his father turned up suddenly in the Court, shook hands with
Granning, who alone kept him company, and passed a few perfunctory
remarks with his son.
"How is it you haven't been to me for money?" he said gruffly.
Bojo answered with a lightness he was far from feeling:
"Well, they haven't taken it away from me yet, Dad."
"Mighty sorry to hear it." He looked him over critically. "In good
shape?"
"Fine."
"Get enough sleep and don't do much sitting up and counting the stars?"
"Hardly. How've you been?"
"Sound as a drum."
"How's the business, father?"
The question brought them perilously near what each had in mind. Perhaps
one word of daring would have broken down the pride of their mutual
obstinacy. Mr. Crocker growled out:
"Business is mighty shaky. Your precious Wall Street and politics have
got every one scared to death. Mighty lucky we'll be if a crash doesn't
hit us."
Had Bojo defended himself, the father might have reopened the question
of his entering the mills; but he didn't, and after a few minutes of
indefinite seeking for an opening Mr. Crocker went off as abruptly as he
had come.
The next morning Bojo, to end this depressing period of inactivity, made
a resolve to accept any opportunity, no matter how humble the salary,
and went down to see Mr. Stoughton to ask him for the chance to start at
the bottom. Skeeter received him with the same cordiality as before, but
access to the father was not to be had that day. In desperation he sat
down and wrote his request. Two days later he received his answer in the
evening mail.
Mr. Thomas Crocker.
Dear Tom:
Please forgive any delay due to press of business. Just at
present there is no vacancy, and frankly I would not advise
you to take the step even if there were. I know you are
young and impatient to be at work again, but I can not but
feel that you would not be happy in making such a radical
move, particularly when at any moment the opportunity you
are looking for may turn up.
Cordially yours,
J. N. STOUGHTON.
Granning came in as he was sitting by the wastebasket and slowly tearing
this letter into minute shreds.
"Hello, young fellow--what luck?"
"I think I'm on," said Bojo, slowly, feeling all at once shelved and
abandoned. "The last thing people downtown have any use for, Granning,
is a busted broker!"
"You have found that out, have you?" said Granning quickly.
Bojo nodded.
"Well, you're right." He sat down. "See here, old sport, why don't you
do the thing you ought to do?"
"What's that?"
"Go down and see the old man and tell him you're ready to start for the
mills to-morrow!"
"No, no, I can't do that."
"You want to do it, at heart. It's only pride that's keeping you."
"Perhaps, but that pride means a lot to me," said Bojo doggedly. "Never!
I'm not going to him a failure. So shut up about that."
"Well, what are you going to do?"
Bojo began to whistle, looking out the window.
"Suppose I were to offer you a job over at the factory?"
"Would you?" said Bojo, looking up with a leaping heart.
"That means starting in on rock bottom--as I did. Up at six, there at
seven--beginning as a day laborer on a beautifully oily and smudgy
blanking machine among a bunch of Polacks."
"Will you give me a chance?" said Bojo breathlessly.
"Will you stick it out?"
"You bet I will!"
"Done!"
And they shook hands with a resounding smack that seemed to explode all
Bojo's pent-up feelings.
"All right, young fellow," said Granning with a grin. "To-morrow we'll
find out what sort of stuff you're made of!"