The tired business man leaves his home in the country just in time to
catch the next train. By ten o'clock, at the latest, he is in his
office, having ridden up to the thirteenth floor in an express elevator
and so gained a distinct advantage over his London competitors who are
in the habit of walking up to their offices on the third floor. He finds
his mail opened and sorted on his desk. He glances over the most
important letters, puts aside those requiring immediate attention, and
has his shoes shined. At eleven o'clock he calls up on the telephone
and, in the course of fifteen minutes' conversation, transacts a great
deal of business which has to be confirmed by letter. His father would
merely have written the letter.
Ignoring the primary rule of health which forbids the mingling of work
and recreation, he makes a business appointment for lunch, and between
one o'clock and half-past three he puts through a deal on which his
father would have spent at least half an hour during his busiest hours.
Returning to his office he dictates several letters which he dictated
the day before and into which a number of vital errors have been
introduced in the course of transcription. This necessitates repeated
reference to a card catalogue, an operation which takes some time
because the young man in charge has been brought up on the phonetic
system and experiences some difficulty in determining the proper place
of the letter G in the alphabet. From 3:30 to 4:30 the business man is
interviewed by an agent who demonstrates the merits of a new
labour-saving letter file. Donning his overcoat hastily he runs to make
an express which takes eight minutes to reach Grand Central Station,
whereas the local trains sometimes take as much as eleven minutes.
Later, exhausted by his efforts of the day, he just manages to purchase
two seats on the aisle from a speculator, and staggers to his chair at
8:30 as the curtain rises on the first act of "The Girl and the
Eskimo."