After cindery hours in a day coach--the fine and the loss of his Pullman
reservation have left him with less than three dollars in cash--Oliver
crawls into Vanamee and Company's about four in the afternoon. Everybody
but Mrs. Wimple and Mr. Tickler is out of Copy for the moment and the
former greets him with coy wit.
“Been taking your vacation at Newport, Crowie? Or didja sneak the Frisco
account away from Brugger's Service when you were out West?”
“Oh, no, got jugged--that was all,” says Oliver quite truthfully if
tiredly and Mrs. Wimple crows at the jest with high laughter. Oliver
marvels at the fact that everybody should seem to think it so humorous
to be jailed.
“Why, Crowie, you naughty little boy! Oh mischief, mischief!” and she
scrapes one index finger over the other at him in a try for errant
childishness. Then she and her perfume come closer and this time she
looks around before she speaks and there is some little real concern in
her voice.
“Listen, Crowie--you better watch your step, boy--I'm telling
you straight. Old Man Alley was real sore when you didn't blow in
yesterday--it was one of Vanamee's bad days when his eye gets twitchy
and he was rearing around cursing everybody out and giving an oration
on office discipline that'd a made a goat go laugh itself ill. And then
Alley got hold of Délier and they are both talking about you--I know
because Délier said 'Oh give him another chance' and Alley said 'What's
the use, Deller--he's been here eight months and he doesn't seem to
really get the hang of things,' in that snippy little way and then 'I
can't stand breaches of discipline like this.' You know how nervous
it gets him if as much as a fastener is out of place on his desk--and
Winslow's got a kid cousin he wants to put in here and if you don't act
like mama's darling for a while--”
She is ready to go on indefinitely, but Oliver thanks her
abstractedly--it is decent of the old girl after all--grunts “Guess I
better start in looking busy now, Mrs. Wimple!” and sits down at his
desk.
A note from Deller with five pencil sketches attached of the new trade
figures for Brittlekin--two bloated looking children with inkblot eyes
looking greedily at an enormous bar of peanut candy. “Dear Crowe: Will
you give me copy on these as soon as possible--something snappy this
time.--E. B. D.” A memorandum, “Mr. Piper called you 4 P.M. Monday.
Wishes you to call him as soon as possible.” The United Steel Frame
Pulley layouts and another note from Deller, “This is LATE. DO
something.” Back to pulleys again and the crowded sweat-box of the copy
room and twenty-five dollars a week with the raise gone glimmering now--
And Nancy is lost.
Oliver sits looking at the layouts for United Steel Frame Pulleys for
half-an-hour without really doing anything but sharpen and resharpen a
pencil. Mrs. Wimple wonders if he's sick--he ain't white or anything
but he looks just like Poppa did the time he came back and told Momma,
“Momma the bank has bust and our funds has went.” She watches him
eagerly--gee, it'd be exciting if he fainted or did anything queer! He
said he'd been in jail too--Mrs. Wimple shivers--but he's so comical you
never can tell what he really means--that way he looks may be just what
she saw in a movie once about “the pallid touch of the prison.” If it's
indigestion, though, he ought to try Pepsolax--that certainly eases you
up right--
Finally Oliver stacks all the layouts together in a careful pile and
goes in to see Mr. Alley. That precise and toothy little sub-deity does
not seem extremely enthusiastic over his return.
“Well, Mr. Crowe, so you got back? What detained you?”
“Police” says Oliver with a faint smile and Mr. Alley laughs dutifully
enough though rather in a “here, here, we must get down to business”
way. Then he fusses with his pencil a little.
“I'm glad you came in, Crowe. I wanted to see you about that matter. It
is not so much that we begrudge--but in a place like this where
everyone must work shoulder to shoulder--and purely as a point of office
discipline--Mr. Vanamee is rather rigid in regard to that and your work
so far has really hardly justified--”
“Oh that's all right, Mr. Alley” breaks in Oliver, though not rudely,
he is much too fagged to be rude, “I'm leaving at the end of the week if
it's convenient to you.”
“Well, _really_, Mr. Crowe.” But in spite of his diplomatic surprise he
hardly seems distressfully perturbed. “I hope it is not because you
feel we have treated you unfairly--” he begins again a little
anxiously--under all his feathers of fussiness he is essentially kindly.
“Oh no, I'm just leaving.”
There are more diplomatic exchanges but when they have ended Oliver goes
back to Copy, remarks “Quitting Saturday, Mrs. Wimple,” gets his hat and
goes off a quarter of an hour earlier than he ever has before, leaving
the rest of Copy to match pennies and opinions till closing time on the
question as to whether he fired himself or was fired.