_Autobiographical Data imparted, for Sound Business Reasons, to a
Landlady's Agent; of the Agent's Other Title, etc._
While all move in slots in this world, Mr. Queed's slot was infinitely
more clearly marked than any of his neighbors'. It ran exclusively
between the heaven of his room and the hades of the _Post_ office;
manifesting itself at the latter place in certain staid writings done in
exchange for ten dollars, currency of the realm, paid down each and
every Saturday. Into this slot he had been lifted, as it were by the
ears, by a slip of a girl of the name of Charlotte Lee Weyland, though
it was some time before he ever thought of it in that way.
In the freemasonry of the boarding-house, the young man was early
accepted as he was. He was promptly voted the driest, most uninteresting
and self-absorbed savant ever seen. Even Miss Miller, ordinarily
indefatigable where gentlemen were concerned, soon gave him up. To Mr.
Bylash she spoke contemptuously of him, but secretly she was awed by his
stately manner of speech and his godlike indifference to all pleasures,
including those of female society. Of them all, Nicolovius was the only
one who seemed in the least impressed by Mr. Queed's appointment as
editorial writer on the _Post_. With the others the exalted world he
moved in was so remote from theirs that no surprises were possible
there, and if informed that the little Doctor had been elected president
of Harvard University, it would have seemed all in the day's work to
William Klinker. Klinker was six feet high, red-faced and friendly, and
Queed preferred his conversation above any heard at Mrs. Paynter's
table. It reminded him very much of his friend the yeggman in New York.
What went on behind the door of the tiny Scriptorium the boarders could
only guess. It may be said that its owner's big grievance against the
world was that he had to leave it occasionally to earn his bread and
meat. Apart from this he never left it in those days except for one
reason, viz., the consumption three times a day of the said bread and
meat. Probably this was one explanation of the marked pallor of his
cheek, but of such details as this he never took the smallest notice.
Under the tiny bed were three boxes of books, chief fruit of the savings
of an inexpensive lifetime. But the books were now merely the occasional
stimulus of a mind already well stored with their strength, well
fortified against their weaknesses. Nowadays nearly all of Queed's time,
which he administered by an iron-clad Schedule of Hours, duly drawn up,
went to the actual writing of his Magnum Opus. He had practically
decided that it should be called "The Science of Sciences." For his book
was designed to coördinate and unify the theories of all science into
the single theory which alone gave any of them a living value, namely,
the progressive evolution of a higher organized society and a higher
individual type. That this work would blaze a wholly new trail for a
world of men, he rarely entertained a doubt. To its composition he gave
fifteen actual hours a day on _Post_ days, sixteen hours on non-_Post_
days. Many men speak of working hours like these, or even longer ones,
but investigation would generally show that all kinds of restful
interludes are indiscriminately counted in. Queed's hours, you
understand, were not elapsed time--they were absolutely net. He was one
of the few men in the world who literally "didn't have time."
He sat in Colonel Cowles's office, scribbling rapidly, with his eye on
his watch, writing one of those unanswerable articles which were so much
dead space to a people's newspaper. It was a late afternoon in early
February, soon after the opening of the legislature; and he was alone in
the office. A knock fell upon the door, and at his "Come," a girl
entered who looked as pretty as a dewy May morning. Queed looked up at
her with no welcome in his eye, or greeting on his lip, or spring in the
pregnant hinges of his knee. Yet if he had been a less self-absorbed
young scientist, it must certainly have dawned on him that he had seen
this lady before.
"Oh! How do you do!" said Sharlee, for it was indeed no other.
"Oh--quite well."
"Miss Leech tells me that Colonel Cowles has gone out. I particularly
wished to see him. Perhaps you know when he will be back?"
"Perhaps in half an hour. Perhaps in an hour. I cannot say."
She mused disappointedly. "I could hardly wait. Would you be good enough
to give him a message for me?"
"Very well."
"Well--just tell him, please, that if he can make it convenient, we'd
like the article about the reformatory to go in to-morrow, or the next
day, anyway. He'll understand perfectly; I have talked it all over with
him. The only point was as to when the article would have the most
effect, and we think the time has come now."
"You would like an article written about a reformatory for to-morrow's
_Post_ or next day's. Very well."
"Thank you so much for telling him. Good-afternoon."
"_You_ would like," the young man repeated--"but one moment, if you
please. You have omitted to inform me who _you_ are."
To his surprise the lady turned round with a gay laugh. Sharlee had
supposed that Mr. Queed, having been offended by her, was deliberately
cutting her. That her identity had literally dropped cleanly from his
mind struck her as both much better and decidedly more amusing.
"Don't you remember me?" she reminded him once again, laughing full at
him from the threshhold. "My dog knocked you over in the street one
day--surely you remember the pleasure-dog?--and then that night I gave
you your supper at Mrs. Paynter's and afterwards collected twenty
dollars from you for back board. I am Mrs. Paynter's niece and my name
is Charlotte Weyland."
Weyland?... Weyland? Oho! So this was the girl--sure enough--that Henry
G. Surface had stripped of her fortune. Well, well!
"Ah, yes, I recall you now."
She thought there was an inimical note in his voice, and to pay him for
it, she said with a final smiling nod: "Oh, I am _so_ pleased!"
Her little sarcasm passed miles over his head. She had touched the
spring of the automatic card-index system known as his memory and the
ingenious machinery worked on. Presently it pushed out and laid before
him the complete record, neatly ticketed and arranged, the full dossier,
of all that had passed between him and the girl. But she was nearly
through the door before he had decided to say:
"I had another letter from my father last night."
"Oh!" she said, turning at once--"_Did_ you!"