TOMMY found it difficult during the first few days to adjust himself to
his new work. He had fixed his mind upon doing Herculean labors, in
the belief that the reward would thereby come the sooner. Moreover,
in taking on a heavy burden he had imagined he would find it easier to
expiate his own participation in his father's sin of love. Twice a
week Tommy wrote to Mr. Leigh, and told him never his new feelings,
but always his new problems. And the secret, after the manner of all
secrets, proved a bond, something to be shared by both. Tommy did not
realize it concretely, but it was his own sorrow that developed the
filial sense in him.
His disappointment over the unimportance of his position he endeavored
to soothe by the thought that he was but a raw recruit still in the
training-camp. In a measure he had to create his own duties, and he was
forced to seek ways of extending their scope, of making himself into an
indispensable cog in Mr. Thompson's machine.
The fact that he did not succeed made him study the harder. It isn't in
thinking yourself indispensable, but in trying to become so, that the
wisdom lies.
His relations toward his fellow-employees crystallized very slowly, by
reason of his own consciousness that the shop could so easily do without
him. He neither helped them in their work nor was helped by them in
his. But it was not very long before he was able to indulge in
mild jocularities, which was a symptom of growing self-confidence.
Friendliness must come before friendship.
As a matter of fact, he was learning by absorption, which is slow but
sure. He obtained his knowledge of the company's business, as it
were, in the abstract, lacking the grasp of the technical details
indispensable to a full understanding. But he found it all the easier,
later on, to acquire the details. In this Bill Byrnes was a great help
to him, for all that Bill appeared to have the specialist's indifference
toward what did not directly concern him. Young Mr. Brynes was all for
carburetors. He would more or less impatiently explain other parts of
the motor to Tommy, but on his own specialty he was positively eloquent,
so that Tommy inevitably began to think of the carburetor as the very
heart of the Tecumseh motor. He knew Bill was working on a new one in a
little workshop he had rigged up in Mrs. Clayton's woodshed, a holy
of holies full of the fascination of the unknown. Tommy must keep his
secret to himself, but he was sorry that Bill kept anything from him.
The fact that, after all, there could not be a full and fair exchange
between them alone kept Tommy from bitterly resenting Bill's incomplete
confidence in him.
Mr. Thompson, to Tommy, was less a disappointment than an enigma;
and, worse, an enigma that constantly changed its phases. Tommy really
thought he had bared his soul to the young-looking president of the
Tecumseh Motor Company, and a man never can deliberately lose the sense
of reticence without wishing to replace it with a feeling of affection.
Mr. Thompson seemed unaware that Tommy's very existence in Tommy's mind
was a matter of Mr. Thompson's consent. He was neither cold nor warm in
his nods as he passed by Tommy's desk on his way to the private office.
Suddenly Mr. Thompson developed a habit of using Tommy as errand-boy,
asking him to do what the twelve-year-olds could have done. And as this
was not done with either kindly smiles or impatient frowns, Tommy obeyed
all commands with alacrity and a highly intelligent curiosity.
What did Mr. Thompson really expect to prove by them? In his efforts to
find hidden meanings in Mr. Thompson's casual requests Tommy developed a
habit of trying to see into the very heart of all things connected
with the company's affairs. Of course he did not always succeed,
and doubtless he wasted much mental energy, but the benefits of this
education, unconsciously acquired, soon began to tell in Tommy's
attitude toward everything and everybody. And since the change took
place within him he naturally was the last man to know it.
One day Mr. Thompson rang for him. Tommy answered on the run.
“Leigh,” said Mr. Thompson, rising from his chair, “sit down here.” Then
he pointed to a sheaf of papers on his desk. Tommy sat down. He looked
at the sheets on the desk before him and saw rows of figures. But
before he could learn what the figures represented Mr. Thompson took a
lead-pencil from the tray, gave it to Tommy, and said, “The first number
of all, Leigh?”
Tommy looked at the top sheet. “Yes,” he said; “it's 8374--”
“No. The first of the cardinal numbers!”
“One?”
“Don't ask me.”
“One!” said Tommy, and blushed.
“Of course.” Mr. Thompson spoke impatiently. “The beginning, the first
step. One! Did you ever study numbers?”
“I--” began Tommy, not fully understanding the question. Then, since he
did not understand, he said, decidedly, “No, sir!”
“Do you know anything of the significance of the number seven?”
“In mathematics?”
“In everything!”
“No, sir.”
“Ever hear of Pythagoras?”
“The Greek philosopher?”
“I see you don't. At all times, in all places, a mystical significance
has attached to the number seven. Ask a man to name a number between one
and ten, and nearly always he will answer, 'Seven!' Do you know why?”
“No, sir. But I am not sure he would answer--”
“Try it!” interrupted Mr. Thompson, almost rudely. “It is also a
well-known fact that in all religions seven has been the favorite
number. Greece had her Seven Sages. There were the Seven Sleepers of
Ephesus and Seven Wonders of the Old World. The Bible teems with sevens:
the Seven-branched Candlestick, the Seven Seals, the Seven Stars, the
Seven Lamps, and so forth.
“Abraham sacrificed seven ewes; the span of life is seventy years, and
the first artificial division of time was the week--seven days. And the
Master multiplied seven loaves and fed the multitude, and there were
left seven baskets. And He told us to forgive our enemy seven times, aye
and until seventy times seven. And there are seven notes in music and
seven colors in the spectrum. Also the superstition about the seventh
son of a seventh son is found among all peoples.”
“I see!” said Tommy, and wondered.
Mr. Thompson looked at Tommy searchingly. Tommy's mind was working
away--and getting nowhere!
Mr. Thompson now spoke sharply: “Take your pencil and strike out in
those sheets every odd number that comes after a one or a seven. Get
that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don't skip a single one. I've spent a lot of time explaining. Now rush.
Ready?”
“Yes, sir,” said Tommy.
“Go!” shouted Mr. Thompson, loudly, and looked at his stop-watch.
Tommy went at it. His mind, still occupied with the magical virtues of
seven, and, therefore, with trying to discover what connection existed
between his own advancement and life-work and Mr. Thompson's amazing
instructions, did not work quite as smoothly as he wished. He was filled
with the fear of omitting numbers. He did not know that Mr. Thompson was
watching him intently, a look of irrepressible sympathy in his steady
brown eyes. And then Tommy suddenly realized that obedience was what was
wanted. From that moment on his mind was exclusively on his work. At
length he finished and looked up.
“How many?” asked Mr. Thompson.
Tommy counted. Mr. Thompson timed him.
“Two hundred and eighty-seven,” said Tommy, presently.
“Thank you; that's all,” said Mr. Thompson, impassively.
Tommy felt an overwhelming desire to ask the inevitable question, but
he also felt in honor bound not to ask anything. This made him rise and
leave the room without the slightest delay.
Mr. Thompson smiled--after Tommy passed out of the door.
Just a week later Mr. Thompson stopped abruptly beside Tommy, who sat at
his desk, and said, without preamble:
“Look round this room!”
Tommy did so.
“Again--all round the room!” said Thompson.
Tommy obeyed unsmilingly.
“Once more, slowly. Look at everything and everybody!”
Tommy did so. This time he included both ceiling and floor, and in the
end his glance rested on Mr. Thompson's face.
“Come with me,” said Mr. Thompson.
Tommy followed the president into the private office.
“Sit down, Leigh, and tell me what you saw. Name every object,
everything you remember--numbers and colors and sizes.”
Tommy understood now what was expected of him and regretted that he had
not made a stronger effort at memorizing. He decided to visualize the
office and its contents. He closed his eyes and began at one corner of
the office, methodically working his way clear round.
Mr. Thompson had a comptometer in his hand and registered as Tommy
spoke.
“That's all I can remember.”
“Ninety-six--less than a third. Color seems to be your weak point. Study
colors hereafter, but don't neglect form and size or numbers. Now tell
me how the people looked; how they impressed you. Frankly.”
Tommy told him frankly how the clerks looked to him.
“Come back here this afternoon at two-thirty-two sharp,” said Thompson.
And Tommy, after one look at the plump face and steady eyes, went away,
disappointed but honestly endeavoring to convince himself that Mr.
Thompson was not really and truly unfair.
At two-thirty-two sharp--Tommy had taken the precaution not only to
go by the infallible electric dock over the cashier's desk, but
had predetermined exactly how many seconds to allow for the
twenty-eight-yard trip from his desk to Mr. Thompson's--Tommy reported
to Mr. Thompson.
Mr. Thompson looked at the clock, then at Tommy. “Leigh,” he said, with
an impatient frown, “sell me a car!”
Tommy, of course, had thought of the selling department as he had of
others. He had become acquainted with such agency inspectors as dropped
in to talk to Mr. Thompson, but that branch of the business did not
interest him as much as others. He knew what he ought to do, and tried
to recall all the devices of salesmanship he had ever heard or read
about. He was not very successful, for though his mind worked quickly,
no mind can ever work efficiently on insufficient knowledge or without
the purely verbal confidence that practice gives.
He looked at Mr. Thompson, the man who was trying to find out what Tommy
Leigh was best fitted for. That made him once more think of Tommy Leigh
in terms of Tommy Leigh's needs. He must not bluff. He must not conceal
anything except the secret. Mr. Thompson was a square man. He must
be square with Mr. Thompson. Also Tommy Leigh must be to Mr. Thompson
exactly what Tommy Leigh was to himself. Now what was Mr. Thompson to
him? And, indeed, what was Mr. Thompson to Mr. Thompson? An expert, a
man who knew not only motors, but men, who knew more about everything
than any salesman could know. No salesman could talk to Mr. Thompson
effectively.
Mr. Thompson was not an average man. He knew! And the average man was a
sort of Tommy Leigh--that is, he did not know much.
And so, though Tommy did not know it, his secret, which by making
all other concealment intolerable, compelled him to be honest, again
compelled him to do the intelligent thing. It enabled him not only to
see clearly, but to speak truthfully.
And when Mr. Thompson repeated impatiently: “Come! Come! Sell me a car!”
Tommy Leigh looked him boldly in the eye and answered confidently:
“Can't!”
“Why not?”
“Because it is impossible.”
“Why?”
“You are you. You give me a problem that can't be answered except by an
answer to quite a different problem. You know cars. You have cars. You
make cars. You really don't want me to sell you a car. You want me to
talk to a groceryman who has never spent more than seventeen cents for
recreation, or to a speed maniac with ten thousand dollars a year pocket
money. It wouldn't be Thompson. Nobody could sell a car to Thompson.
Thompson doesn't need to be made aware that he wants to buy a car.”
He was speaking from the bottom of his soul, and because he had been
honest to himself and to the man who had promised to befriend him,
Tommy's courage grew. It made him now look unblinkingly at the president
of the Tecumseh Motor Company. He saw neither displeasure nor approval
in the brown eyes. So to make sure he had made himself understood Tommy
added, positively:
“It isn't that I think your question is an unfair one, but that the
problem isn't a problem, any more than if you ask, 'How old is a man who
wears a black necktie on his way to his office?' when you really want to
know if he limps.”
“That's all,” said Mr. Thompson, and turned his back on Tommy.
Tommy turned on his heel and walked out of the room, conscious that
he was a failure. He realized now that he had not made himself
indispensable. His information bureau could be shut up and no harm
whatever suffered by the company. In the tests to which Mr. Thompson had
subjected him he had not proven that there was first-class raw material
in him. Perhaps the tests were not fair; probably they were. Why,
indeed, should he expect favors? What business could be conducted on the
basis of unintelligent kindliness?
And the crushing sense of failure made his secret rise before the poor
boy. He had intended to make restitution, and here he was good for
nothing! When discovery came where would he be? He gritted his teeth
and clenched his fists as the awful vision fleeted before his eyes--the
vision of what discovery would bring to him. He would take the blow! He
would be good for something! If not in Dayton, elsewhere.
He had been a boy! He had been himself, as God made him. But now he
would be different! He would make Tommy Leigh a young man who would
secure his advancement by any and all means. To succeed he would bluff
and lie and--
No! Nobody had it easy, not even people who wouldn't fight. And now he
wanted to fight--fight with all his might! The harder the fight,
the better! Fight the world, life, hell, Thompson, everything, and
everybody, the more the better. He would die fighting, with his soul
full of rage. The great reward was the end of all trouble!
When a man commits suicide in a really glorious way he grows calm. How
can petty annoyances disturb a heroic corpse? Tommy grew calm. He would
have to leave Dayton, but Dayton had taught him just one thing--that
beyond all question there was some place in the world where Thomas
Francis Leigh would prove his value! He felt even a sort of gratitude to
the head of the Tecumseh Motor Company, to whom he was indebted for
his education. He had learned more of life in the few weeks he had
been there than in the twenty-one years and three months he had spent
elsewhere. His gratitude brought in time that mood of genial melancholy
which is the heritage of youth, when youth, in the midst of life, feels
its own loneliness. And because youth also is generous, Tommy felt he
must share it with somebody.
He decided to write, not to his father, but to Marion Willetts! He had
written to her only once, a bright and amusing letter--of course to be
read between the lines. She had answered. And her own letter, too, was
full of Tommy Leigh. She asked for details concerning the few hundred
things that Tommy intentionally had merely hinted at in his first.
This second letter to her must be carefully written. It must both
express and conceal, say and leave unsaid. Every word must mean exactly
what he desired to convey, in precisely the way he wished her to get the
message.
He closed his eyes and began to compose.
Words never before had meant quite so much to Tommy. It was a literary
revelation, because Tommy was utterly unaware that he was writing his
first letter to his own twenty-one years and eighteen weeks!
He had not quite finished his peroration when Mr. Thompson came out of
his office. Tommy looked up and saw him, saw the man who had written the
end of his Dayton chapter. He felt no resentment. Indeed, Mr. Thompson
had been more than kind. The fifteen dollars a week was really a gift;
Tommy acknowledged to himself that he hadn't given a just equivalent
therefor to the Tecumseh Motor Company.
And Mr. Thompson also was the man who had made it possible for Tommy
to compose that wonderful unwritten letter to Marion, which by
crystallizing his own attitude toward life, work, duty, and earthly
happiness, had enabled Tommy Leigh to become acquainted with the
brand-new Tommy Leigh.
Tommy stood up, for Mr. Thompson was walking straight toward him, and
smiled expectantly, hoping to receive some order, that he might carry
it out in full, now that he knew he had to leave, and, therefore, could
obey with an eager willingness unvitiated by hopes of advancement.
“Tommy,” said Mr. Thompson, in the voice of an old and intimate friend,
“are you game for a quiet evening?”
“Yes, sir,” said Tommy, not betraying his curiosity or his fear.
“Will you dine with me at my house--seven sharp. We'll have a very quiet
time talking, just the two of us.”
Mr. Thompson was smiling slightly. Tommy felt a wave of gratitude
surging within him. This man, being a gentleman, wished to break the
news gently.
In his appreciation Tommy in turn felt honor bound to spare Mr. Thompson
every embarrassment.
“Of course I shall be delighted. But I want to say, Mr. Thompson, that
you don't have to--er--” Tommy paused.
“To what?” asked Mr. Thompson, puzzled.
“To be so nice about telling me that I--I haven't made good with you.
You've done more than anybody else in the world would have done, more
than I had any reason to expect. And--”
“What are you driving at?” interrupted Mr. Thompson.
“You've made up your mind to let me go, haven't you?” asked Tommy,
bluntly.
“Hell, no!” said Thompson.
Tommy looked at him, wide-eyed.
Thompson went on: “Seven. You know my house?”
Tommy nodded as Mr. Thompson passed on. It was all he was able to do.
In point of fact he had to ask Martin, the cashier, where Mr. Thompson
lived.
He didn't finish his letter to Marion. He was too busy dressing for
his first dinner in Dayton and trying to keep from singing. Whatever
happened eventually, this was a respite. He didn't even attach any
importance to Mrs. Clayton's look of awe as she saw Tommy in his dinner
clothes, nor to Billy's ironical, “Good-by, old carburetor!” as he left
the boarding-house on his way to Mr. Thompson's.