"Rather thirsty this morning, eh, Mr. Addicks?" inquired Cowdin, the
chief purchasing agent. The "Mister" was said with a long, hissing "s"
and was distinctly not meant as a title of respect.
Cowdin, as he spoke, rested his two square hairy hands on Croly Addicks'
desk, and this enabled him to lean forward and thrust his well-razored
knob of blue-black jaw within a few inches of Croly Addicks' face.
"Too bad, Mr. Addicks, too bad," said Cowdin in a high, sharp voice. "Do
you realize, Mr. Addicks, that every time you go up to the water cooler
you waste fifteen seconds of the firm's time? I might use a stronger
word than 'waste,' but I'll spare your delicate feelings. Do you think
you can control your thirst until you take your lunch at the
Waldorf-Astoria, or shall I have your desk piped with ice water, Mr.
Addicks?"
Croly Addicks drew his convex face as far away as he could from the
concave features of the chief purchasing agent and muttered, "Had
kippered herring for breakfast."
A couple of the stenographers tittered. Croly's ears reddened and his
hands played nervously with his blue-and-white polka-dot necktie. Cowdin
eyed him for a contemptuous half second, then rotated on his rubber heel
and prowled back to his big desk in the corner of the room.
Croly Addicks, inwardly full of red revolution, outwardly merely
flustered and intimidated, rustled among the piles of invoices and forms
on his desk, and tried desperately to concentrate on his task as
assistant to the assistant purchasing agent of the Pierian Piano
Company, a vast far-flung enterprise that boasted, with only slight
exaggeration, "We bring melody to a million homes." He hated Cowdin at
all times, and particularly when he called him "Mr. Addicks." That
"Mister" hurt worse than a slap on a sunburned shoulder. What made the
hate almost beyond bearing was the realization on Croly's part that it
was impotent.
"Gawsh," murmured the blond stenographer from the corner of her mouth,
after the manner of convicts, "Old Grizzly's pickin' on the chinless
wonder again. I don't see how Croly stands it. I wouldn't if I was him."
"Aw, wadda yuh expeck of Chinless?" returned the brunette stenographer
disdainfully as she crackled paper to conceal her breach of the office
rules against conversation. "Feller with ingrown jaws was made to pick
on."
At noon Croly went out to his lunch, not to the big hotel, as Cowdin had
suggested, but to a crowded basement full of the jangle and clatter of
cutlery and crockery, and the smell and sputter of frying liver. The
name of this cave was the Help Yourself Buffet. Its habitues, mostly
clerks like Croly, pronounced "buffet" to rhyme with "rough it," which
was incorrect but apt.
The place was, as its patrons never tired of reminding one another as
they tried with practiced eye and hand to capture the largest
sandwiches, a conscience beanery. As a matter of fact, one's conscience
had a string tied to it by a cynical management.
The system is simple. There are piles of food everywhere, with prominent
price tags. The hungry patron seizes and devours what he wishes. He then
passes down a runway and reports, to the best of his mathematical and
ethical ability, the amount his meal has cost--usually, for reasons
unknown, forty-five cents. The report is made to a small automaton of a
boy, with a blase eye and a brassy voice. He hands the patron a ticket
marked 45 and at the same instant screams in a sirenic and incredulous
voice, "Fawty-fi'." Then the patron passes on down the alley and pays
the cashier at the exit. The purpose of the boy's violent outcry is to
signal the spotter, who roves among the foods, a derby hat cocked over
one eye and an untasted sandwich in his hand, so that persons deficient
in conscience may not basely report their total as forty-five when
actually they have eaten ninety cents' worth.
On this day, when Croly Addicks had finished his modest lunch, the
spotter was lurking near the exit. Several husky-looking young men
passed him, and brazenly reported totals of twenty cents, when it was
obvious that persons of their brawn would not be content with a lunch
costing less than seventy-five; but the spotter noting their bull necks
and bellicose air let them pass. But when Croly approached the desk and
reported forty-five the spotter pounced on him. Experience had taught
the spotter the type of man one may pounce on without fear of sharp
words or resentful blows.
"Pahdun me a minute, frien'," said the spotter. "Ain't you made a little
mistake?"
"Me?" quavered Croly. He was startled and he looked guilty, as only the
innocent can look.
"Yes, you," said the spotter, scowling at the weak outlines of Croly's
countenance.
"No," jerked out Croly. "Forty-five's correct." He tried to move along
toward the cashier, but the spotter's bulk blocked the exit alley.
"Ain't you the guy I seen layin' away a double portion of strawb'ry
shortcake wit' cream?" asked the spotter sternly.
Croly hoped that it was not apparent that his upper lip was trembling;
his hands went up to his polka-dot tie and fidgeted with it. He had
paused yearningly over the strawberry shortcake; but he had decided he
couldn't afford it.
"Didn't have shortcake," he said huskily.
"Oh, no!" rejoined the spotter sarcastically, appealing to the ring of
interested faces that had now crowded about. "I s'pose that white stuff
on your upper lip ain't whipped cream?"
"It's milk," mumbled Croly. "All I had was milk and oatmeal crackers and
apple pie. Honest."
The spotter snorted dubiously.
"Some guy," he declared loudly, "tucked away a double order of strawb'ry
shortcake and a hamboiger steak, and it wasn't me. So come awn, young
feller, you owe the house ninety cents, so cut out the arggament."
"I--I----" began Croly, incoherently rebellious; but it was clear that
the crowd believed him guilty of the conscienceless swindle; so he
quailed before the spotter's accusing eye, and said, "Oh, well, have it
your own way. You got me wrong, but I guess you have to pick on little
fellows to keep your job." He handed over ninety cents to the cashier.
"You'll never see my face in this dump again," muttered Croly savagely
over his shoulder.
"That won't make me bust out cryin', Chinless," called the spotter
derisively.
Croly stumbled up the steps, his eyes moist, his heart pumping fast.
Chinless! The old epithet. The old curse. It blistered his soul.
Moodily he sought out a bench in Madison Square, hunched himself down
and considered his case. To-day, he felt, was the critical day of his
life; it was his thirtieth birthday.
His mind flashed back, as you've seen it done in the movies, to a scene
the night before, in which he had had a leading role.
"Emily," he had said to the loveliest girl in the world, "will you marry
me?"
Plainly Emily Mackie had expected something of the sort, and after the
fashion of the modern business girl had given the question calm and
clear-visioned consideration.
"Croly," she said softly, "I like you. You are a true friend. You are
kind and honest and you work hard. But oh, Croly dear, we couldn't live
on twenty-two dollars and fifty cents a week; now could we?"
That was Croly's present salary after eleven years with the Pierian
Piano Company, and he had to admit that Emily was right; they could not
live on it.
"But, dearest Emily," he argued, "to-morrow they appoint a new assistant
purchasing agent, and I'm in line for the job. It pays fifty a week."
"But are you sure you'll get it?"
His face fell.
"N-no," he admitted, "but I deserve it. I know the job about ten times
better than any of the others, and I've been there longest."
"You thought they'd promote you last year, you know," she reminded him.
"And so they should have," he replied, flushing. "If it hadn't been for
old Grizzly Cowdin! He thinks I couldn't make good because I haven't one
of those underslung jaws like his."
"He's a brute!" cried Emily. "You know more about the piano business
than he does."
"I think I do," said Croly, "but he doesn't. And he's the boss."
"Oh, Croly, if you'd only assert yourself----"
"I guess I never learned how," said Croly sadly.
As he sat there on the park bench, plagued by the demon of
introspection, he had to admit that he was not the pugnacious type, the
go-getter sort that Cowdin spoke of often and admiringly. He knew his
job; he could say that of himself in all fairness, for he had spent many
a night studying it; some day, he told himself, they'd be surprised, the
big chiefs and all of them, to find out how much he did know about the
piano business. But would they ever find out?
Nobody, reflected Croly, ever listened when he talked. There was nothing
about him that carried conviction. It had always been like that since
his very first day in school when the boys had jeeringly noted his
rather marked resemblance to a haddock, and had called out, "Chinless,
Chinless, stop tryin' to swallow your face."
Around his chinlessness his character had developed; no one had ever
taken him seriously, so quite naturally he found it hard to take himself
seriously. It was inevitable that his character should become as
chinless as his face.
His apprenticeship under the thumb and chin of the domineering Cowdin
had not tended to decrease his youthful timidity. Cowdin, with a jut of
jaw like a paving block, had bullied Croly for years. More than once
Croly had yearned burningly to plant his fist squarely on that
blue-black prong of chin, and he had even practiced up on a secondhand
punching bag with this end in view. But always he weakened at the
crucial instant. He let his resentment escape through the safety valve
of intense application to the business of his firm. It comforted him
somewhat to think that even the big-jawed president, Mr. Flagstead,
probably didn't have a better grasp of the business as a whole than he,
chinless Croly Addicks, assistant to the assistant purchasing agent.
But--and he groaned aloud at the thought--his light was hidden under a
bushel of chinlessness.
Someone had left a crumpled morning edition of an evening paper on the
bench, and Croly glanced idly at it. From out the pages stared the
determined incisive features of a young man very liberally endowed with
jaw. Enviously Croly read the caption beneath the picture, "The fighting
face of Kid McNulty, the Chelsea Bearcat, who boxes Leonard." With a
sigh Croly tossed the paper away.
He glanced up at the Metropolitan Tower clock and decided that he had
just time enough for a cooling beaker of soda. He reached the soda
fountain just ahead of three other thirsty men. By every right he should
have been served first. But the clerk, a lofty youth with the air of a
grand duke, after one swift appraising glance at the place where Croly's
chin should have been, disregarded the murmured "Pineapple phosphate,
please," and turned to serve the others. Of them he inquired
solicitously enough, "What's yourn?" But when he came to Croly he shot
him an impatient look and asked sharply, "Well, speak up, can't yuh?"
The cool drink turned to galling acid as Croly drank it.
He sprinted for his office, trying to cling to a glimmering hope that
Cowdin, despite his waspishness of the morning, had given him the
promotion. He reached his desk a minute late.
Cowdin prowled past and remarked with a cutting geniality, harder to
bear than a curse, "Well, Mr. Addicks, you dallied too long over your
lobster and quail, didn't you?"
Under his desk Croly's fists knotted tightly. He made no reply.
To-morrow, probably, he'd have an office of his own, and be almost free
from Cowdin's ill-natured raillery. At this thought he bent almost
cheerfully over his stack of work.
A girl rustled by and thumb-tacked a small notice on the bulletin board.
Croly's heart ascended to a point immediately below his Adam's apple and
stuck there, for the girl was Cowdin's secretary, and Croly knew what
announcement that notice contained. He knew it was against the Spartan
code of office etiquette to consult the board during working hours, but
he thought of Emily, and what the announcement meant to him, and he rose
and with quick steps crossed the room and read the notice.
Ellis G. Baldwin has this day been promoted to assistant
purchasing agent.
(Signed) SAMUEL COWDIN C. P. A.
Croly Addicks had to steady himself against the board; the black letters
on the white card jigged before his eyes; his stomach felt cold and
empty. Baldwin promoted over his head! Blatant Baldwin, who was never
sure of his facts, but was always sure of himself. Cocksure incompetent
Baldwin! But--but--he had a bulldog jaw.
Croly Addicks, feeling old and broken, turned around slowly, to find
Cowdin standing behind him, a wry smile on his lips, his pin-point eyes
fastened on Croly's stricken face.
"Well, Mr. Addicks," purred the chief purchasing agent, "are you
thinking of going out for a spin in your limousine or do you intend to
favor us with a little work to-day?" He tilted his jaw toward Croly.
"I--I thought I was to get that job," began Croly Addicks, fingering his
necktie.
Cowdin produced a rasping sound by rubbing his chin with his finger.
"Oh, did you, indeed?" he asked. "And what made you think that, Mr.
Addicks?"
"I've been here longest," faltered Croly, "and I want to get married,
and I know the job best, and I've been doing the work ever since Sebring
quit, Mr. Cowdin."
For a long time Cowdin did not reply, but stood rubbing his chin and
smiling pityingly at Croly Addicks, until Croly, his nerves tense,
wanted to scream. Then Cowdin measuring his words spoke loud enough for
the others in the room to hear.
"Mr. Addicks," he said, "that job needs a man with a punch. And you
haven't a punch, Mr. Addicks. Mr. Addicks, that job requires a fighter.
And you're not a fighter, Mr. Addicks. Mr. Addicks, that job requires a
man with a jaw on him. And you haven't any jaw on you, Mr. Addicks. Get
me?" He thrust out his own peninsula of chin.
It was then that Croly Addicks erupted like a long suppressed volcano.
All the hate of eleven bullied years was concentrated in his knotted
hand as he swung it swishingly from his hip and landed it flush on the
outpointing chin.
An ox might have withstood that punch, but Cowdin was no ox. He rolled
among the waste-paper baskets. Snorting furiously he scrambled to his
feet and made a bull-like rush at Croly. Trembling in every nerve Croly
Addicks swung at the blue-black mark again, and Cowdin reeled against a
desk. As he fell his thick fingers closed on a cast-iron paperweight
that lay on the desk.
Croly Addicks had a blurred split-second vision of something black
shooting straight at his face; then he felt a sharp brain-jarring shock;
then utter darkness.
When the light came back to him again it was in Bellevue Hospital. His
face felt queer, numb and enormous; he raised his hand feebly to it; it
appeared to be covered with concrete bandages.
"Don't touch it," cautioned the nurse. "It's in a cast, and is setting."
* * * * *
It took long weeks for it to set; they were black weeks for Croly,
brightened only by a visit or two from Emily Mackie. At last the nurse
removed the final bandage and he was discharged from the hospital.
Outside the hospital gate Croly paused in the sunlight. Not many blocks
away he saw the shimmer of the East River, and he faced toward it. He
could bury his catastrophe there, and forget his smashed-up life, his
lost job and his shattered chances of ever marrying. Who would have him
now? At best it meant the long weary climb up from the very bottom, and
he was past thirty. He took a half step in the direction of the river.
He stopped; he felt a hand plucking timidly at his coat sleeve.
The person who plucked at his sleeve was a limp youth with a limp
cigarette and vociferous checked clothes and cap. There was no mistaking
the awe in his tone as he spoke.
"Say," said the limp youth, "ain't you Kid McNulty, de Chelsea Bearcat?"
He? Croly Addicks? Taken for Kid McNulty, the prize fighter? A wave of
pleasure swept over the despondent Croly. Life seemed suddenly worth
living. He had been mistaken for a prize fighter!
He hardened his voice.
"That's me," he said.
"Gee," said the limp youth, "I seen yuh box Leonard. Gee, that was a
battle! Say, next time yuh meet him you'll knock him for a row of circus
tents, won't yuh?"
"I'll knock him for a row of aquariums," promised Croly. And he jauntily
faced about and strolled away from the river and toward Madison Square,
followed by the admiring glances of the limp youth.
He felt the need of refreshment and pushed into a familiar soda shop.
The same lofty grand duke was on duty behind the marble counter, and was
taking advantage of a lull by imparting a high polish to his finger
nails, and consequently he did not observe the unobtrusive entrance of
Croly Addicks.
Croly tapped timidly with his dime on the counter; the grand duke looked
up.
"Pineapple phosphate, please," said Croly in a voice still weak from his
hospital days.
The grand duke shot from his reclining position as if attached to a
spring.
"Yessir, yessir, right away," he smiled, and hustled about his task.
Shortly he placed the beverage before the surprised Croly.
"Is it all right? Want a little more sirup?" inquired the grand duke
anxiously.
Croly, almost bewildered by this change of demeanor, raised the glass to
his lips. As he did so he saw the reflection of a face in the glistening
mirror opposite. He winced, and set down the glass, untasted.
He stared, fascinated, overwhelmed; it must surely be his face, since
his body was attached to it, but how could it be? The eyes were the mild
blue eyes of Croly Addicks, but the face was the face of a stranger--and
a startling-looking stranger, at that!
Croly knew of course that it had been necessary to rebuild his face,
shattered by the missile hurled by Cowdin, but in the hospital they had
kept mirrors from him, and he had discovered, but only by sense of
touch, that his countenance had been considerably altered. But he had
never dreamed that the transformation would be so radical.
In the clear light he contemplated himself, and understood why he had
been mistaken for the Chelsea Bearcat. Kid McNulty had a large amount of
jaw, but he never had a jaw like the stranger with Croly Addicks' eyes
who stared back, horrified, at Croly from the soda-fountain mirror. The
plastic surgeons had done their work well; there was scarcely any scar.
But they had built from Croly's crushed bones a chin that protruded like
the prow of a battleship.
The mariners of mythology whom the sorceress changed into pigs could
hardly have been more perplexed and alarmed than Croly Addicks. He had,
in his thirty years, grown accustomed to his meek apologetic face. The
face that looked back at him was not meek or apologetic. It was
distinctly a hard face; it was a determined, forbidding face; it was
almost sinister.
Croly had the uncanny sensation of having had his soul slipped into the
body of another man, an utter stranger. Inside he was the same timorous
young assistant to the assistant purchasing agent--out of work; outside
he was a fearsome being, a dangerous-looking man, who made autocratic
soda dispensers jump.
To him came a sinking, lost feeling; a cold emptiness; the feeling of a
gentle Doctor Jekyll who wakes to find himself in the shell of a fierce
Mr. Hyde. For a second or two Croly Addicks regretted that he had not
gone on to the river.
The voice of the soda clerk brought him back to the world.
"If your drink isn't the way you like it, sir," said the grand duke
amiably, "just say the word and I'll mix you up another."
Croly started up.
"'Sall right," he murmured, and fumbled his way out to Madison Square.
He decided to live a while longer, face and all. It was something to be
deferred to by soda clerks.
He sank down on a bench and considered what he should do. At the twitter
of familiar voices he looked up and saw the blond stenographer and the
brunette stenographer from his former company passing on the way to
lunch.