For the next fortnight Jim Ashe was too busy to give thought to his new
environment, to study the new world to which he had been translated. He
was studying the clothespin business. It is true he did not come to his
work wholly unprepared; being Clothespin Jimmy’s son, that was
impossible. His father had talked it, thought it, dreamed it. Jim had
assimilated it with his meals. Also, as a boy, before his college days,
in vacation times when college days arrived, he had worked in the mills
and acquired for the business that distaste which he once vainly fancied
was to lead him down widely different vocational paths.
As a lad he had counted and packed pins; later he had dogged in the
sawmill; one vacation he had calloused and slivered his hands feeding
the drum. He had scaled timber; he had been chore-boy for old Pazzy
Miller, the pinmaker. These various jobs were given him out of his
father’s wisdom to show him the how and the why of all steps in the
manufacture. Nor was he ignorant of other branches of the business, for
clothespins were not the sole product, though they were its backbone. He
was not unacquainted with the mysteries of the veneer lathe nor with the
making of wood ashes. He understood somewhat the technic of the turner,
and the processes which went to the making of wooden spoons,
rolling-pins, drumsticks, and the like—all turned from seasoned lumber.
Those things he knew as a workman. Something of the marketing problems
his father had been able to drop unsuspected into his mind, but this was
all incoherent, not card-indexed and pigeonholed and ready for instant
use. Jim spent his time—not occupied by immediately pressing concerns
and events—in preparing the knowledge he had, in adding to it; in
short, in preparing himself as best he could to handle and husband the
property that was his. It was surprisingly like trying to swim after a
course of twenty lessons from a correspondence school.
A week before the machinery was ready to turn over, the office force
with its paraphernalia arrived from the old office and was installed in
the new. It consisted of one stenographer, picked by Clothespin Jimmy
wholly for efficiency and not at all for adornment; of a middle-aged
bookkeeper, who seemed to have been born with something more than the
normal quantity of organs, for there grew from his forehead a green
eye-shade, without which he was never seen, and there sprouted in his
right hand a pen. There was also an assistant bookkeeper, whose business
in life was to act and look as much like the bookkeeper, Mr. Grierson,
as possible; and a shipping-clerk, whose familiarity with freight-rates
and with the occult business of routing freight-cars so they would
arrive where they were intended to go, instead of at the other side of
the continent, was such as to arouse Jim’s admiration.
The clothespin war was as yet a minor trouble. He had one letter from
the secretary of the Club, informing him that the price he had quoted
was cut by another five per cent. This cut he met immediately. A flood
of orders came in from brokers, traveling-men, wholesalers—all rushing
to take advantage of the low market to stock up. These Jim culled over
carefully, accepting only enough to keep his plant running to capacity,
not overloading himself with orders which he would have to fill in case
of a cessation of hostilities and consequent soaring of price.
He called into conference his superintendent, millwright, master
mechanic, and the foremen of his departments, but it was not a
conference, as the event proved. It consisted merely of a brief
statement by Jim.
“The job you fellows are up against,” he said, “is to manufacture better
and cheaper than anybody else. Prices are down. I believe we can still
show a profit. Any man who has an idea that will save a tenth of a cent
on a box of pins will find it profitable to bring it to me. What’s the
best day’s average you made in the old plant, Pete?”
“Seventy-five boxes a machine,” said the old pinmaker.
“I’m expecting eighty here,” Jim told him. “It costs as much to operate
a machine making sixty boxes as it does eighty. If you can make eighty,
the extra five will come close to being profit. Don’t let a machine, a
lathe, a saw, waste machine hours. Everything has got to run; it has got
to run constantly, and it has got to produce the greatest quantity that
is physically possible. I’m depending on you men. We have a new crew in
large part. I want them to feel I’m depending on them. Tell every girl,
every man of the crew, that the Ashe Clothespin Company is depending on
her or on him, and that each may depend on me. If I expect them to give
me a square deal, I expect myself to give them a square deal. Tell them
that. There’ll be no dissatisfaction or labor trouble here if I can help
it—and I can. I guess that’s all. Now get at it.”
The men looked at one another; old Pete scratched his head and grinned,
and they filed out. Their feeling, if one was to judge from their faces,
was one of satisfaction and confidence. They believed in the new boss,
and that is the first step toward a feeling of affection.
It was that afternoon that Zaanan Frame drove his old horse
Tiffany—named, as Jim found out, after the greatest of legal books,
Tiffany’s _Justices’ Guide_—up to the mill and rheumatically climbed to
the office.
“Afternoon,” said he. “Name’s Jim, hain’t it?”
Jim nodded curtly. He suspected the justice of being no friend of his,
but an ally of the other camp.
“All right, Jim. Last names was made for fellers that git to be
postmasters. Couldn’t sort the mail without ’em. Hain’t for every-day
use no more ’n plug hats.”
“What can I do for you, Judge?” Jim asked, offishly.
The old fellow regarded him a moment in silence.
“Wa-al, you might put more sugar into your coffee. Need sweet’nin’ up.
Still livin’ to the hotel, eh? All the comforts of home? Suits you to a
tee?”
“The meals are all right,” said Jim, unbending a trifle, “but that’s all
you can say.”
“Um! What’s home without a motto over the door? Hain’t met Mis’
Stickney? Course not. Widder woman twice repeated. Machinery runnin’?
Um! Got her goin’ quicker ’n folks expected.”
“We hurried things up a bit.”
“To be sure. Never seen sich a woman as the Widder Stickney for
house-cleanin’. Best housekeeper in the county. Mill makes a heap of
difference in Diversity. Kind of irritatin’ to Lafe Meggs up to the
store. Says somebody’s always comin’ in and disturbin’ him to buy
somethin’ or other. Calc’lates he’ll have to hire a clerk. Lafe’s
ambitions mostly requires a sittin’ posture.”
“How big is this town, Judge?”
“About a dozen people and five hundred folks. Take in the newspaper,
Jim?”
“I take a Grand Rapids paper.”
“Take in the Diversity paper, Jim?”
“No.”
“Um! Comes out Thursdays. Int’restin’ readin’ into it sometimes. The
Widder Stickney got her second husband on the strength of her cookin’.
Calc’late she could git a third with it, but she allows husbands is so
fleetin’ and funeral expenses is so high ’twouldn’t hardly pay. Name of
the paper is the _Diversity Eagle_. Business perty good, eh? Keepin’ up
brisk?”
“We manage to keep from loafing.”
“To be sure. Loafin’s the leadin’ sport here. Calc’late Dolf Springer’s
our champion jest now. Interestin’ piece in the paper this week. Several
interestin’ pieces. Don’t take it in, eh? Early riser, hain’t you? See
you walkin’ ’fore breakfast.”
Jim wondered if the old justice had any ulterior meaning in this
observation. He had arisen early each morning and tramped out into the
country. Sometimes he had been close to admitting to himself that this
was not wholly for the air and exercise. Indeed, he had wondered if
something much more material and human had not been at the root of the
matter. There, for instance, was that young woman whom he had
encountered on top of the knoll. She walked of mornings, too—and she
was an interesting if not attractive individual. She puzzled him. He
even went so far as to be vaguely anxious about her, for her state of
mind had not appealed to him as one conducive to normal and conventional
behavior. He wondered if Zaanan Frame knew of that encounter, or knew of
that subsequent meeting—and passing—a week later when Miss Ducharme
had come face to face with him at a turn of the road and had gone by
with nothing to indicate she was aware of his existence except a
scornful flash of her black eyes.
“Somebody was sayin’,” he heard Zaanan observe, “that the Widder
Stickney had a spare room she was thinkin’ of rentin’. Yes, sir, if I
was goin’ to read the _Diversity Eagle_ I figger this week’s issue’d be
the one I’d look for. Um! Calc’late Tiffany’s tired of standin’. Have to
humor him. Powerful high-spirited boss. Second-floor room on the front,
it was. G’-by, Jim. _Eagle_ office is next to Lafe Meggs’s store.”
The old man went out, and it seemed as if he creaked in every joint. Jim
heard him pass slowly along the hall and out of the door—and wondered
what his visit meant. He reviewed the rambling conversation as best he
could; found that in spite of himself he was attracted by Zaanan’s
personality. But why had the old fellow come? What had he talked about?
Why, about the Widow Stickney and her room, and about the _Diversity
Eagle_. Jim was not yet familiar with Zaanan Frame’s methods, but it did
seem clear to him that the old justice wanted him to go to board with
Mrs. Stickney; wanted him also to read the current issue of the _Eagle_.
That evening Jim procured a copy of the _Eagle_. Its leading article
gave the news that Michael Moran had purchased a controlling interest in
the Diversity Hardwood Company, and had been elected its president in
the place of Henry W. Green, resigned. This was worth while. It was
important, for the prosperity of the Ashe Clothespin Company depended on
the Diversity Hardwood Company. It was the latter that furnished the
birch, beech, and maple from which the clothespins were manufactured. It
was with that company that Clothespin Jimmy had negotiated a twenty-year
timber contract calling for the delivery in his mill-yard of not less
than five millions nor more than ten millions of feet of timber a year.
Pursuant to this contract the new mills had been erected. Here was news
indeed. What did it signify? What would be its results that touched Jim
Ashe? And why had Zaanan Frame wanted him to be apprised—warned—of the
event? If Zaanan’s hint to read the paper was of such undoubted value,
would not his other suggestion be worth looking into? Jim thought so,
and inquired his way to the Widow Stickney’s. She occupied a pleasant,
maple-shaded house surrounded by riotous flower-beds and more practical
kitchen gardens. It was attractive with the flavor of home. Jim rang the
bell.
The result of his call and inspection was that he rented from the widow
her second-floor front and arranged to be fed at her table. As he was
leaving she hesitated, hemmed, and hawed, as Clothespin Jimmy would have
put it, and finally said:
“I got one other boarder. Jest one. Hain’t no objections to that, have
you?”
“None whatever, Mrs. Stickney,” said Jim, which was perfectly true. He
had neither objections nor curiosity regarding the fact. However, as he
walked between the flower-beds to the gate some one turned in and
approached him. He looked up, felt himself draw a little sudden breath
of surprise, for the individual was Marie Ducharme. Jim knew instantly
that she was the other boarder. She passed him, cheeks slightly flushed,
eyes straight ahead, without deigning to look at him. He felt a warmth
about his ears.
That evening he sat late on the hotel piazza, working on a puzzle.
He could not piece it together. Why had Zaanan Frame wanted him to know
of Michael Moran’s new business venture? But, even more difficult of
solution, why had Zaanan wanted him to board with the Widow Stickney?
Marie Ducharme insisted on obtruding herself into his puzzlings. It was
absurd, he knew, but had she anything to do with the matter?