THE INTERVIEW.
Jimmy went back despondently to his little boarding-house room. To him
the rebuff had been a severe one. He thought about it for an hour;
then he had lunch, and went haphazard, with renewed hope, to interview
several other big business men whose names he procured.
But either his manner had lost some of its confidence, or else the
telephone girls he almost invariably encountered were less favorably
impressed with him than the girl at the Wentworth Company, for in no
other instance did he even receive that much encouragement.
No one of importance in the whole great city of New York, it seemed to
Jimmy then, cared to see him or to hear about his big idea. He thought
about it that whole Tuesday evening, sitting alone in his little
bedroom, with his fists clenched and his face flushed and serious.
Two conclusions he reached: one was that he would _not_ tell his
business to any telephone girl or clerk; and the other was that he
_would_ see somebody big, if he had to keep on trying till doomsday.
The next morning he was back at the Wentworth Company offices, smiling
cheerfully at the girl he had seen the day before. And every day that
week he was there, still asking for “Mr. Wentworth’s secretary,
please.”
Finally one morning, still protesting that his business was important,
and that he could not tell it either to her or to the suggested Mr.
Cooper, Jimmy heard the first encouraging words of his whole week of
waiting.
“Mr. Wentworth’s secretary will see you in a few minutes,” the
telephone girl announced.
“What’s her name?”
“His name is Mr. Leffingwell Hope.”
“Thank you very much,” said Jimmy, and sat down on a little bench to
wait.
In about ten minutes Mr. Leffingwell Hope appeared. He was a man about
thirty, two or three inches shorter than Jimmy, and very much more
slender of build. He was immaculately dressed; his hair was straight,
slightly long, and neatly brushed; his face was thin, pale, and
sharp-featured, with gray eyes, and a long, thin nose with a bump on
its bridge, giving him a hawk-like expression. Jimmy disliked Mr.
Leffingwell Hope the minute he saw him—there was about him something
sinister, like a snake.
“Are you James Rand?” the secretary began.
If Jimmy Rand had disliked Mr. Hope from his appearance, he positively
hated him when he heard his voice. It was one of those soft, curiously
intoned, effeminate voices; Jimmy had never heard one before.
“Damned sissy,” he thought. “Yes,” he answered. He smiled—as friendly
a smile as he could muster.
The secretary did not smile. He came through the little wooden gate
and stood facing Jimmy, who had risen to meet him. Jimmy had decided
to tell his idea to Mr. Hope; now that he saw him, he decided he
wouldn’t. A sudden despairing courage made him decide at the same
instant to see the president himself. It must be possible to work it
some way.
“I want to see Mr. Wentworth—Mr. Robert G. Wentworth,” said Jimmy
firmly.
“What do you want to see him about?”
Jimmy hesitated. “That’s what I’m going to tell him when I see him,”
he said finally.
“Mr. Wentworth never sees anybody except by appointment.”
“I’m in no hurry,” Jimmy grinned cheerfully; his courage began coming
back. This Mr. Leffingwell Hope, after all, didn’t seem so very
formidable. “I’ll make an appointment, then.”
“If your business is important, I’ll hear it now.” The secretary
turned slightly away, as though he were being unnecessarily detained
from important work inside. “Tell it quick,” he added. “The young lady
says you don’t represent any one. What is it?”
Jimmy’s anger flared up suddenly. He put out his hand and gripped Mr.
Leffingwell Hope by the arm, turning him around until they were again
face to face.
“Say, listen, you—you don’t understand.” He tried to keep the anger
out of his voice; and when the secretary shook off his hold he let go
promptly. “I came all the way from Menchon, Pennsylvania, to see Mr.
Wentworth. And I’ve waited over a week. It’s an important thing—it’s
something he will be glad to hear.”
“All right, then—tell it to me. If it’s important, I’ll ask Mr.
Wentworth if he’ll see you.”
“I won’t tell it to you,” Jimmy said doggedly. “I _won’t_ tell it to
you or to anybody but him.”
“Then I guess you won’t tell it,” said Mr. Hope, and turned back
toward the railing.
This time Jimmy was really angry. He took a swift step forward and
again seized the secretary by the arm. “Look here, you—you’re not
giving me a square deal.”
“Take your hands off me,” said Mr. Hope evenly. Evidently he was not a
coward, for there was no alarm in his eyes.
Jimmy released the secretary reluctantly. “You’re not giving me a
square deal. You tell Mr. Wentworth I want to see him, and see what he
says.”
The secretary looked Jimmy over from head to foot. “I don’t know what
your game is, young man, but I think you’re a damn fool.”
“If you didn’t think so much you’d get along better,” Jimmy retorted.
“Will you tell him I’m here or won’t you?”
Instead of making Mr. Hope angry, this seemed to strike him as
amusing, for he smiled. “If you’ll give me some idea of why you want
to see him, and why he should take his time to see you, I’ll tell him,
yes.”
A flash of inspiration came to Jimmy. “You tell him I know a way to
make glass that will only use one-quarter as much coal for fuel as he
uses now. That’s important enough, isn’t it? And tell him it won’t
take me five minutes to explain it, either.”
Mr. Leffingwell Hope looked at Jimmy as if he thought the visitor was
insane. Then he smiled again his nasty smile. “All right,” he said.
“If he’s not too busy I’ll tell him exactly what you say. And I don’t
think he’ll be interested in the least.”
“I don’t care what you think, so long as you tell him,” said Jimmy;
and he sat down on the bench again to wait as the secretary departed.
Mr. Leffingwell Hope revolved this extraordinary interview in his mind
as he went back to see his employer. A great curiosity consumed him to
know what it was this remarkable youth from the country had to say, so
that he almost hoped Mr. Wentworth would see his unknown visitor.
As luck would have it for Jimmy, the president of the Wentworth Glass
Company was not in the least busy at that particular moment. As a
matter of fact, he was waiting for an expected visit from his
daughter. It did not promise to be particularly pleasant, for she had
just telephoned him she was coming down to get a check he had only
that morning at breakfast told her she could not have.
All of which had made the company’s chief executive decide that he
would do no business that morning, for in his present perturbed state
of mind whatever business decisions he made probably would be
ill-advised. So when his secretary appeared with this unique tale of
an unknown youth who promised to tell him in five minutes how to
revolutionize completely his business, Mr. Wentworth welcomed the
diversion. He smiled quizzically, and directed Mr. Leffingwell Hope to
show the young man in at once.
“Mr. Wentworth will see you now,” said the secretary sourly,
reappearing at the little wooden gate.
“Thank you very much,” said Jimmy, rising with alacrity. He grinned at
Mr. Hope, but without a trace of triumph.
The secretary said nothing more, but led Jimmy past endless rows of
stenographers, down a long corridor, through two or three small
semiprivate offices, until at last they reached the very innermost
private office of the president himself.
With his hat clutched tightly in his hand and his heart beating so it
seemed about to smother him, Jimmy suddenly found himself facing a
large, flat-topped mahogany desk that stood in the center of the huge
office into which Mr. Hope had ushered him.
At the desk sat a gray-haired, slightly stout gentleman of about
sixty. His mustache was very long and almost snow-white. His skin was
clear and ruddy, and his eyes that smiled at Jimmy as he entered were
very kindly. Jimmy liked him at once, but he was afraid of him just
the same.
“This is the young man who wants to see you. He says his name is
Rand,” said Mr. Leffingwell Hope.
“Sit down, Mr. Rand.” The president indicated a chair. “What can I do
for you?”
Jimmy sat down. He expected Mr. Hope to take his departure, but
instead of leaving, the secretary went to a filing-cabinet and busied
himself at one of its drawers. Jimmy wondered if he dared ask him to
leave the room, and then decided he had better not. After all, he had
wanted to see this big business man, and here he was in his private
office, and Mr. Wentworth was waiting for him to begin telling his big
idea. He cleared his throat nervously. How would he begin? What was
the best thing to say first?
“You were fortunate, Mr. Rand,” the president’s quiet voice
interrupted his reverie. “I’m not busy just at this moment. But I will
be shortly.”
Jimmy noticed that there was nothing on Mr. Wentworth’s desk except
ink-well, pens, and blotter; not the slightest sign of any big
business to be attended to—and yet he knew Mr. Wentworth was the
biggest, most important man in the business world he had ever seen in
his life. He could not understand this fact; later he found out that
the higher up an executive is, the less he allows to accumulate on his
desk and the more leisure time he seems to have.
“What is your business, Mr. Rand?” The president seemed slightly
surprised at his visitor’s continued silence.
Jimmy drew a long breath. He felt infinitely small, insignificant. The
luxurious office seemed suddenly very vast, with great empty spaces
all around. He trembled at the thought of hearing his own voice in it.
But he knew he must speak—must say something. This was his big chance.
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak the words that trembled
on his lips the door of the office opened unceremoniously and a young
lady swept into the room.
She was a girl about Jimmy’s own age—a very pretty girl with blond
hair, and blue eyes. She was more expensively dressed than Jimmy had
ever seen a girl dressed before—except on the stage, perhaps—in big,
flowing furs, a soft, sweeping, broad-brimmed hat, and with a huge
bunch of violets at her waist. She carried herself with the air of a
princess; and Jimmy felt suddenly abashed at being in her presence.
As she came in the young lady nodded briefly to Mr. Hope, who smiled
at her easily yet with considerable deference. The president greeted
her with a little frown of annoyance.
“I’m busy now, Estelle,” he said mildly, rising from his chair to face
her. Jimmy stood up also, which he felt somehow was the right thing to
do.
The young lady evidently had no intention of withdrawing. She looked
Jimmy up and down from head to foot calmly, and then said to her
father:
“Very well. Ill wait for you.” Then she turned away, and, drawing up a
little chair near the filing-cabinet, entered into a low-toned
conversation with Mr. Hope.
The president sighed hopelessly. For one brief instant he seemed
undecided. Then he frowned.
“I— Tell your business to my secretary,” he said abruptly to Jimmy,
waving his hand in dismissal. “He’ll take care of it for you. Oh, Mr.
Hope—if you please. Will you see this young man in your office? Thank
you. Good day, Mr. Rand.”
Jimmy stood stock-still. He could feel himself flushing. A sudden hot
resentment toward this girl—this intruder—possessed him—that she
should have come into the room, at this of all times, just when he had
been given his big chance. And now she had spoiled it all!
“This way, Mr. Rand”—the secretary was standing by his side—“I’ll see
you now.”
Jimmy nodded confusedly. Mr. Wentworth inclined his head also, and
then turned aside to speak to his daughter. And Jimmy, not having
spoken a word since he entered the president’s office, turned and
followed Mr. Leffingwell Hope through the opened door.
The private office of Mr. Wentworth’s secretary, into which Jimmy was
now ushered, was a smaller and only slightly less magnificent replica
of that of the president himself.
Mr. Leffingwell Hope took a seat at his desk, and motioned Jimmy to
sit down also.
“Mr. Wentworth is always very busy,” he began, in his soft, unpleasant
tones. “What is it you have to say?”
Jimmy, in spite of his continued resentment at the way he had been
treated, and his increasing awe of Mr. Leffingwell Hope, was thinking
fast. He had decided before that he would not tell his plan to Mr.
Hope. But if he did not, probably he would never be able to tell it to
any one—in this company, anyway. And the other companies he had been
to had treated him even more coldly.
If he did tell it to Mr. Hope, now while he had the opportunity, the
secretary undoubtedly would explain it to Mr. Wentworth. And the
president would be interested, of course, and then later on, he could
see him again about it.
Jimmy resolutely put aside his dislike and distrust of Mr. Hope and
took the plunge.
“It’s about the coal you burn in your factories for fuel, Mr. Hope,”
he began. And then after a brief pause, he went on with a rush:
“I’ve been a coal miner all my life, and I’ve been thinking a lot
about coal. The coal you use in your glass factories has to be mined
and hauled from the mine to you. That’s what makes it cost you so
much. I—I know you burn a lot of it, and this year especially, with
all the labor trouble and the shortage, it is getting to be awful
expensive. And—and I’ve been thinking—why couldn’t the coal be burned
in the ground right where it is, and put the factory there—instead of
mining it? The heat would come up from below, you know.”
Jimmy paused, a little out of breath. It wasn’t exactly what he had
wanted to say; somehow it didn’t seem to sound quite as forceful as he
had thought it would.
Mr. Leffingwell Hope raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps you’d better say
that over again,” he suggested. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”
“Why, I—you see, Mr. Hope, my idea is to build a factory over some
coal deposit, and then, instead of mining the coal, just burn it in
the ground, and pipe the heat up to the factory boilers.”
Once Jimmy got started he found it easier. Mr. Hope listened
casually—impatiently, Jimmy thought. But he did not notice the gleam
of interest in the secretary’s eyes so at variance with his
disinterested, almost sarcastic manner. Finally Mr. Hope interrupted
him.
“Your idea is ingenious, young man, and certainly it is novel.” He
laughed. “I don’t mind saying, even if it were feasible, it perhaps
would be a good thing for us.”
Jimmy flushed at the secretary’s sneering tone. “You—you don’t think
the idea’s any good, do you?” he asked aggressively.
Mr. Hope’s manner suddenly changed.
“You say you propose to burn this coal in the ground just where it
lies?”
“Yes, sir.” Jimmy hated himself for the impulse that made him answer
so deferentially.
“How would you control the fire?”
Jimmy told him in detail as well as he could how he would supply the
air necessary to combustion. Mr. Hope smiled his nasty smile. But with
a wave of his hand to dismiss the subject he said:
“Grant that. How far from the flames you will produce underground will
the furnaces of the factory be?”
Jimmy thought a moment. “Why, maybe five hundred or a thousand feet.”
“And you propose to transport the heat that distance and then apply it
to crucibles for the fusion of glass?”
“Yes, sir,” Jimmy answered promptly, although he had only a vague idea
what Mr. Hope meant by these technicalities.
“What temperature do you suppose you could attain?”
“Why, I—I don’t know,” said Jimmy.
“Could you get a temperature of say sixteen hundred degrees
centigrade?”
“I—I—” Jimmy suddenly remembered how he had once boiled eggs over a
hole of the burning mines. “What’s the temperature of boiling water?”
he asked abruptly.
Jimmy was holding his own, not by his ability to argue, but by his
astounding ingenuousness. The secretary gasped a little at such a
question coming at such a time.
“One hundred degrees centigrade,” he managed to reply.
One hundred degrees! And Mr. Hope had mentioned casually a temperature
sixteen times as great! Jimmy’s heart sank as he realized how
impossible it was. He realized, too, how little he knew about the
whole proposition, for the secretary had recovered from his surprise
and was saying quietly:
“You asked me if I thought your idea was any good. I do not.”
“But you’ll tell it to Mr. Wentworth?” Jimmy put in quickly.
“Yes, I’ll tell it to Mr. Wentworth—and let you know.” Mr. Hope rose
to terminate the interview.
Jimmy rose also. He realized now fully for the first time that there
were a thousand things about the plan that he had never even thought
of, much less understood. Mr. Hope would explain the idea to the
president, of course, but the way he would tell it made Jimmy feel
that Mr. Wentworth wouldn’t think any more of it than his secretary
did.
Jimmy’s confidence in himself and in the idea was unshaken. But he saw
clearly that it would take a long time to get it into shape—for him to
understand it, anyway—and he wouldn’t want any one else to go ahead
with it unless he did understand it.
Jimmy saw also that he would have to know a good deal about the
business of whatever company it was he was going to try and make adopt
the idea. There was no use going to any other company—the Wentworth
was as good as he could find. And all this time, while he was learning
all these things, he would have to live.
The idea occurred to him then that perhaps he could get a job right
here in this very organization. Then he could learn the glass
business, and work out his idea at night. And when he was all ready
and had all his facts down pat he could tackle Mr. Hope and Mr.
Wentworth again. He could never find anybody better than Mr.
Wentworth, he was sure of that.
All this flashed through Jimmy’s mind in an instant. Mr. Hope was
holding out his hand.
“Good day, Mr. Rand. Thank you for coming in.”
Jimmy shook hands. “Mr. Hope, can I have a job with your company?” he
asked abruptly.
The secretary seemed very much taken aback by the directness of this
unexpected, but simple request. He hesitated; then with a curious
smile on his lips, seemed to reach a sudden decision.
“What can you do? Do you know anything about the glass business?”
“Why, I—why no, I don’t,” Jimmy stammered. “I don’t know anything
about any kind of business. But I can learn,” he added hopefully. “I
can learn anything.”
Mr. Hope met his earnest eyes steadily. “You see Mr. Cooper as you go
out—he’s the man about that. Tell him you have seen Mr. Wentworth and
me this morning. Tell him I said to fix you up if he can.”
The secretary’s words surprised Jimmy greatly. Mr. Leffingwell Hope
was not such a bad sort after all!
“Yes, sir. And—and thank you very much,” said Jimmy.