The clerks gave him a farewell dinner. All were there, even the head
office-boy to whom the two-dollar subscription was no light matter. The
man who probably would succeed Gilmartin as manager, Jenkins, acted as
toastmaster. He made a witty speech which ended with a neatly turned
compliment. Moreover, he seemed sincerely sorry to bid good-by to the
man whose departure meant promotion—which was the nicest compliment of
all. And the other clerks—old Williamson, long since ambition-proof; and
young Hardy, bitten ceaselessly by it; and middle-aged Jameson, who knew
he could run the business much better than Gilmartin; and Baldwin, who
never thought of business in or out of the office—all told him how good
he had been and related corroborative anecdotes that made him blush and
the others cheer; and how sorry they were he would no longer be with
them, but how glad he was going to do so much better by himself; and
they hoped he would not “cut” them when he met them after he had become
a great millionaire. And Gilmartin felt his heart grow soft and feelings
not all of happiness came over him. Danny, the dean of the office boys,
whose surname was known only to the cashier, rose and said, in the tones
of one speaking of a dear departed friend: “He was the best man in the
place. He always was all right.” Everybody laughed; whereupon Danny went
on, with a defiant glare at the others: “I’d work for him for nothin’ if
he’d want me, instead of gettin’ ten a week from anyone else.” And when
they laughed the harder at this he said, stoutly: “Yes, I would!” His
eyes filled with tears at their incredulity, which he feared might be
shared by Mr. Gilmartin. But the toastmaster rose very gravely and said:
“What’s the matter with Danny?” And all shouted in unison: “He’s all
right!” with a cordiality so heartfelt that Danny smiled and sat down,
blushing happily. And crusty Jameson, who knew he could run the business
so much better than Gilmartin, stood up—he was the last speaker—and
began: “In the ten years I’ve worked with Gilmartin, we’ve had our
differences and—well—I—well—er—oh, DAMN IT!” and walked quickly to the
head of the table and shook hands violently with Gilmartin for fully a
minute, while all the others looked on in silence.
Gilmartin had been eager to go to Wall Street. But this leave-taking
made him sad. The old Gilmartin who had worked with these men was no
more and the new Gilmartin felt sorry. He had never stopped to think how
much they cared for him nor indeed how very much he cared for them. He
told them, very simply, he did not expect ever again to spend such
pleasant years anywhere as at the old office; and as for his spells of
ill-temper—oh, yes, they needn’t shake their heads; he knew he often was
irritable—he had meant well and trusted they would forgive him. If he
had his life to live over again he would try really to deserve all that
they had said of him on this evening. And he was very, very sorry to
leave them. “Very sorry, boys; very sorry. _Very_ sorry!” he finished
lamely, with a wistful smile. He shook hands with each man—a strong grip
as though he were about to go on a journey from which he might never
return—and in his heart of hearts there was a new doubt of the wisdom of
going to Wall Street. But it was too late to draw back.
They escorted him to his house. They wished to be with him to the last
possible minute.