THERE were no dreams in the eyes of the President of the “R. and Q.”
road the next morning. The office was a chaos of papers; they lay on the
desk and on chairs, and covered the floor. “When John opened the door
and stepped in, the president was running distracted fingers through his
hair and diving into the chaos. He came up with a grunt.
“I wish you’d find that statement the C. B. and L. sent last month--and
be quick about it!”
With a smile the boy hung up his hat and went down on his knees into the
chaos, filing, selecting, discarding, with the old care.
Simeon returned to his desk, growling. He took up the telephone receiver
and put it to his ear, his scowl alert for blunders.... “What?--No!--You
’ve copied that wrong--The _last_ one--yes.... Tom_lin_son, I said--not
Thompson--Oh, Lord! _Tomlin--L-i-n_...”
John slipped quietly from the room. At the door marked with the bronze
token, “President’s Office,” he paused. The typewriters clattered
merrily within and through the ground glass he caught a haze of
pompadours rising against the light. He opened the door and looked in.
The young women at the typewriters did not look up--except with their
shoulders. The one by the large window scowled fixedly at her machine,
her fingers fidgeting and thumping the keys. Her mouth wore a look of
fine scorn and her blue eyes glinted.
John returned to the outer office. The head bookkeeper looked up with a
nod. “Morning, John. Moving along up above!”
The boy nodded a slow reply. “Where is Edith?” he said.
“Oh--Edith?” The man thought a moment with pen suspended. The light from
the hanging bulb fell on his lined face. “Edith? Oh, yes. Congdon took
her. Billing-room, I guess. Back to stay?”
“Not for long.” The boy had disappeared through the swinging door at the
end of the room.
The young man seated at another desk in the room followed him with
curious glance. “Who is that?” he asked, turning a little on his stool
and staring at his companion.
The head bookkeeper nodded absently. “That is John Bennett.” His finger
was on the column, tracing a blunder to its source.
“And who in hell is John Bennett?” demanded the other slowly.
“You ’ll find out--if you stay long enough,” replied the head bookkeeper
pleasantly. He placed his finger on the column and jotted figures on the
little pad at his side. He laid aside the pad. “He ’s Simeon Tetlow’s
shadow,” he said. “The two Bridgewater boys over there by the window.”
He nodded his head. “They call him ’Sissie Johnny.’”
“Looks like a fool and acts like Lord of Creation,” muttered the other.
“That ’s what he is,” said the head bookkeeper. He had no time for
conversation just then. He was close on the track of his mistake.
Moreover, the assistant bookkeeper was a thorn in his side. The
appointment had been none of his--one of old man Tetlow’s blunders, he
called it savagely when he had time to talk.
The assistant bookkeeper took up his pen, looking at it musingly. He
knew, perhaps better than the head bookkeeper, to what he owed his
appointment. Six months ago he had been in the employ of the rival road.
Just why he had left them was his own affair, as were also the wires
that had been pulled in his behalf along the “R. and Q.” Well, he
was here. He had gathered much interesting information in his six
months--information that might be valuable--very valuable--some day. He
dipped his pen in the ink.... As for this John Bennett.... The pens were
both at work now, flying fast.
“You want Edith?” Congdon, the head billing-clerk, looked up from his
file of bills with a little scowl; it changed slowly to pleasure. “Why,
how are you, John? Did n’t know you were back... Edith--Well, yes, I
took her--wanted another hand here. Marshall said they could spare one
from the office. So I took the littlest.” He smiled genially.
“Littlest and best,” said John.
The other laughed out. “I began to suspect it--The old man wants her
back?”
“Right off.”
Congdon turned a little in his place. “Oh, Edith!” He raised his voice
and the girl across the room looked up.
He beckoned to her and she came slowly, leaving her machine with a
little touch that was almost a pat, as if it said, “Coming back very
soon.”
“Yes, sir.” She stood before them waiting, a slight, dark girl, with
clear glance.
“Ah,” the man’s eyes dwelt on her kindly. “They want you back in the
office, Edith. You need n’t stop to finish.--I ’ll put some one else on
those.”
She turned away with a look that was almost a smile of pleasure. Half
way to her table she paused and came back. “I can take my machine, can’t
I?”
He laughed tolerantly. “Oh, take it along, if you want to--Nobody else
wants it.”
John followed her to the table. “I ’ll carry it for you, Edith.”
She slipped out the paper she had been at work on and began gathering up
the trifles from her table.
When he set down the machine in the president’s office, a ripple of
eyebrows passed it by--glances too busy for comment. The clatter of the
typewriters rose and hummed. The hive could not pause for a worker more
or less. She slipped into her place with a little smile and nod, waiting
while John shifted the telephone connection and swung a bulb, with its
green shade, conveniently in place.
The little bell rang sharply and she leaned to the receiver. “Hello!”
John crossed to the young woman by the window. She had finished a sheet
and was drawing it out with a quick swirl.
“All done?” he asked pleasantly.
She ignored him, rubbing out an offending word and blowing away the
black fuzz before she looked up. “What is it?” she said sharply. Her
hair, which was red and crisp, glinted as she turned her head.
John’s eyes followed it with a little look of pleasure. There was
something about that color that always made him happy. He did not know
this and it had never occurred to him to be diplomatic. But a hint of a
smile crossed the girl’s mouth.
“Well?” She was looking at him tolerantly.
He drew a sheaf of papers from his pocket. “These are to be
copied--leaving blanks here, and here--Send a boy when they are done. He
wants two carbons--very clear.”
“All right.” She took them from him with a look of relief. It might be
an honor to take down ’the old man’s dictation, but it was an honor she
could dispense with. She fluffed her fingers toward the glinting hair
and descended on the keys.
John stood for a moment, looking thoughtfully at the crisping hair in
the wide window-light. The girl had turned her head a little and it
twinkled, but did not look up.
As he crossed the room, he glanced casually at the new occupant. Her
head was bent to the receiver and a little smile played about her lips.
“Yes--yes--yes?--yes.” Her fingers moved quickly and she nodded once or
twice as if listening to something pleasant. “She _likes_ to work for
him,” thought John, “same as I do.”
With a look of satisfaction on his round face he closed the office door
behind him. He had accomplished, without a jar, what perhaps no other
man in the service could have done. But he was not thinking of
this--he hardly knew it. He was planning what Simeon should have for
luncheon--something hot and staying....
He reached out a hand to a boy who was hurrying toward the elevator.
“Hold up, Sandy. What’s that?”
“A note for the president.” It was the tone of pride.
John smiled a little as he held out his hand. “I ’ll take it to him--and
here--” The hoy’s face had fallen, “Take this--” He wrote hastily on a
pad--“Carry that, one o’clock sharp, to the Holman House. They ’ll give
you a luncheon for the president. Sprint, won’t you?”
“You bet.” The smile was stealing back to the boyish face.
John nodded. “Bring it up yourself--set it on the box by the door--not
later than one, mind.”
The boy nodded and was gone, tucking the note in his pocket. It did
not occur to him to question the authority of this slow-moving young
man--hardly more than a boy himself.
It did not occur to any one to question it, as he made his way in a
sort of slow-looking, fast fashion about the building, doing the things,
little and big, that came to his hand. One did not think of the boy
apart from his eyes. It was as if a spirit dwelt there, guiding the
slowness and sureness, and men yielded to it, as they yield to the light
when it shines on them.
If the boy had known his power or guessed it, it would have vanished,
slipped from him, even while he put out his hand to it. But he had
always been slow and stupid--not clever like other boys--and needing
time and patience for his work. He knew that it rested his mother to
have him do things for her, and that Simeon Tetlow needed him. Beyond
that his mind did not travel. He could not have told how he knew men’s
thoughts--read their minds, almost, when their eyes looked into his--any
more than he could have told why certain colors made him happy, or why
he had chosen Edith Burton out of the office force for Simeon’s private
work. Things came to him slowly. He stood motionless, sometimes,
waiting--almost stupidly, it seemed--before a piece of work, a decision
to be made--but when he put out his hand to it, he held it with firm
grasp.
Simeon did not look up when he came back. He was speaking into the
telephone, a look of comparative peace on his face.
John swept aside the heap of bills and memoranda that covered the desk
across the room. Then he looked about for the dust-cloth. He found it in
the pocket of one of Simeon’s old coats on the wall. A piece of cheese
fell to the floor as he shook it out. And Simeon, looking around as he
hung up the receiver, smiled for the first time in weeks.
“So that ’s where I put that cheese, is it? I got it one day for
luncheon--forgot where I put it--did n’t have any luncheon that day at
all.” He was looking at it regretfully.
John tossed it into the waste basket, a look of disapproval in his face.
He wiped the dust from his desk, arranging the files of papers he had
collected from the floor and placing them in pigeon-holes.
Simeon watched, a look of something like contentment creeping to his
face. “You found that statement yet?” The question was almost mild.
“Yes, sir.” John picked up the paper and handed it to him. “They ’ve
made double charge on those forty boilers, have n’t they?” Simeon took
it and glared at it. “That ’s what I can’t find out,” he said. “I
can’t find out.” He sighed impatiently and laid it on the desk while he
reached for another set of papers.
John, watching the face, was struck anew by the weariness in it. It was
the face of an old man.
He held out his hand. “Suppose I take it, sir. I ’ll be down in the yard
this afternoon and I ’ll look it up.”
There was a sound of jingling glass outside the partition.
John stepped quickly to the door.
“Here, Sandy. Take this to McElwain in the yard. Tell him I ’ll be down
in half an hour.--Here ’s your luncheon, sir.” He brought in the tray
and placed it on the table, setting a chair before it and drawing the
cork from the bottle. He removed the napkin that covered the tray. “Your
luncheon ’s ready, sir.”
With a sigh of satisfaction, the President of the “R. and Q.” Road rose
from his desk.
“There’s a fresh towel, sir, and I brought up some soap.”
With another sigh, the president of the road obeyed.