CHICKENS COMING HOME TO ROOST
Skinner _did_ look worried, but what ailed him was very foreign to the
cause that McLaughlin and Perkins suspected. He was worrying about his
diminishing bank account. But it was n't the actual diminution of funds
that worried him so much--he was afraid Honey would find him out.
For a long time this fear had haunted him. Like a wasp, it had buzzed
constantly about his ears, threatening to sting him at any moment. It
had become a veritable obsession, a mean, haunting, appetite-destroying,
sleep-banishing obsession.
There were many ways in which this fear might be realized. For instance,
Honey had told him that she was thinking of studying finance so as to
find out all the little leakages and help them save, and that she was
going to ask Mr. Waldron, the teller of the Meadeville National, to
instruct her in the intricacies of banking.
What inadvertent remark might not that functionary drop and thus sow
suspicion in Honey? At first, Skinner had thought of warning the teller
not to discuss these things with Honey. But he made up his mind that
that might direct Waldron's attention to their account and lead him to
suspect something from the new process of circulation which Skinner had
set going when he promoted himself. No--better let sleeping dogs lie in
that direction. Instead, Skinner persuaded Honey that it would be an
imposition on Mr. Waldron, take up too much of his time. He, Skinner,
would give her what instruction she needed.
The more the "cage man" schemed to keep his wife from finding out the
deception he'd practiced on her, the more possibilities of exposure
developed, and the more apprehensive he became.
No sooner did Honey promise not to bother Mr. Waldron than another danger
popped up. By Jingo! There was Mrs. McLaughlin! Honey might again
mention to her something about his raise, reiterate what she had hinted
at on the night of the First Presbyterian reception. No doubt, if she
did, Mrs. McLaughlin would quiz her this time, find out what she was
driving at, and report it to McLaughlin and make him, Skinner, a
laughing-stock in the eyes of the boss. Then, by a series of recoils,
McLaughlin would deny it to his wife, Mrs. McLaughlin would deny it to
Honey, and there'd be the devil to pay. And paying the devil, in this
particular instance, Skinner apprehended, would be a hard proposition.
Instigated by this fear, ever since the night of the First Presbyterian
affair Skinner had schemed to keep Mrs. McLaughlin and Honey apart. It
was easy enough at first, when they were only invited to a few affairs,
but with the enlargement of their social horizon the danger loomed bigger.
Skinner knew enough about women not to warn Honey against talking
confidentially with Mrs. McLaughlin, since this would excite her
suspicions and recoil upon him, Skinner, with a shower of inconvenient
questions. The only thing he could do, then, was to see to it that he
and Honey should avoid places where the McLaughlins were liable to be.
Skinner had been put to all sorts of devices to find out if the
McLaughlins were going to certain parties to which he and Honey had been
invited. He could n't do this very well by discussing the thing with the
boss. So he had endeavored to determine the exact social status of the
McLaughlins in that community and avoid the stratum in which they might
circulate.
But this rule had failed him once or twice, for in communities of the
description of Meadeville social life was more or less democratic and
nondescript. When he had thought himself secure on certain occasions, he
had bumped right into the McLaughlins and then it behooved him to stick
pretty close to Honey all the evening.
This was not what he counted on, for Skinner was beginning to enjoy the
sweets of broader social intercourse. He was beginning to like to talk
with and dance with other women.
At times, when Skinner had received information at the last moment that
the McLaughlins were to be at a party, he had affected a headache. On
one of these occasions, Honey had set her heart on going and told Skinner
that the Lewises had offered to take her along with them in case he
should be delayed at the office--for Skinner had even pretended once or
twice to be thus delayed. Presto! at Honey's words about the Lewises,
Dearie's headache had disappeared.
Skinner thought with a humorous chuckle how Honey had said, "Dearie, I
believe you're jealous of Tom Lewis."
"Perhaps I am," the miserable Skinner had admitted.
Skinner pictured the effect of exposure in all sorts of dramatic ways.
But not once did he see himself suffering--only Honey. That's what
worried him. He could bear pain without flinching, but he could not bear
seeing other persons bear pain--particularly Honey. He knew he could
throw himself on her mercy and confess and that she would forgive him
because she'd know he did it on her account. But the hurt, the real
hurt, would be hers to bear--and Skinner loved Honey.
Whenever Skinner had felt apprehensive or blue because of his
self-promotion and the consequent difficulties he found himself plunged
into, he had looked at his little book, and the credit side of the
dress-suit account had always cheered him. But this infallible method
was not infallible to-night. Going out on the train Skinner had the
"blues" and "had them good." Gloom was closing in on all sides; he could
n't tell why, unless the growing fear of exposure to Honey was taking
hold on his subconsciousness and manifesting itself in chronic,
indefinite apprehension.
At Meadeville, he purposely avoided Black, his next-door neighbor, with
whom he customarily walked home from the depot--for Skinner was not the
man to inflict an uncordial condition upon an innocent person.
When Skinner reached home, Honey drew him gently into the dining-room and
pointed to the table. As she began, "Look, Dearie, oysters, and
later--beefsteak! Think of it! Beefsteak!"--the now familiar formula
that had come to portend some new extravagance,--Dearie stopped her.
"Don't, Honey, don't tell me what you've got for dinner, course by
course. Give me the whole thing at once, or give me a series of
surprises as dinner develops."
"I think you're horrid to stop me," Honey pouted reproachfully. "If I
tell you what I 've got, you'll enjoy it twice as much--once in
anticipation, once in realization."
"But what does this wonderful layout portend or promise?"
"To do good is a privilege, is n't it?"
"Granted."
"Then it's a promise," was Honey's cryptic answer.
Honey had certain little obstinacies, one of which was a way of teasing
Dearie by making him wait when he wanted to know a thing. It was no
use--Skinner could n't budge her.
"I'll wait," said he.
But all the circumstances pointed to the probability of a new "touch,"
which did not add greatly to his appetite.
After his demi-tasse, Skinner said to Honey, "Come, Honey, spring it."
"Not till you 've got your cigar. I want you to be perfectly
comfortable."
Skinner lighted up, leaned back in his chair, and affected--so far as he
was able--the appearance of indulgent nonchalance.
"Shoot."
Honey leaned her elbows on the table, rested her chin in the little
basket formed by her interlacing fingers, and looked at Dearie in a way
that she knew to be particularly engaging and effective.
"I 've always wanted to do a certain thing," she began. "_You_ have
always been my first concern, but now--I want to do something very
personal--very much for my own pleasure. Will you promise to let me do
it?"
"You bet I will," said Skinner; "nothing's too good for you!"
Skinner was genuinely and enthusiastically generous. Also, it would be a
good scheme to indulge Honey, since he might have to ask her indulgence
later on.
"I had a letter from mother this morning."
"Indeed?" There was little warmth in Skinner's tone. "I suppose she
spoke pleasantly, not to say flatteringly, of me."
"Now, Dearie, don't talk that way. I know mother is perfectly
unreasonable about you."
"She came darned near making me lose you. That's the only thing I've got
against her."
"She has n't really anything against you--she only thinks she has,"
observed Honey.
"The only thing she's got against me is that she acted contrary to my
advice and lost her money. She's hated me ever since!"
"It _is_ wrong of her, but we 're not any of us infallible. Besides,
she's my mother--and I can't help worrying about her."
"Why worry?"
"The interest on her mortgage comes due and she can't pay it."
"If she'd only listened to me and not taken the advice of that scalawag
brother-in-law of yours, she would n't have any mortgage to pay interest
on."
"She only got a thousand dollars. At five per cent, that's fifty dollars
a year."
Skinner swallowed hard to keep down the savage impulse that threatened to
manifest itself in profanity whenever he thought of Honey's mother and
his weakling brother-in-law.
"Honey," he said grimly, "does your mother in that letter ask you to help
her out with that interest?"
Honey lifted her head proudly. "She does n't ask me anything. She does
n't have to. She only tells me about it."
"Yes, she does n't have to."
"You know I 've always wanted to do something for her, and I've never
been able to. I'm ashamed to neglect her now, when we're living so well
and dressing so well--and you have your raise. It's only a dollar a
week."
"Have you any more relatives who have a speculative tendency?" Skinner
began with chill dignity.
"Now, Dearie!" Honey began to cry and Skinner got up from the table and
went over and kissed her.
She had married him against mother's advice and had stood by him like a
brick, and he'd do anything for her. He stroked her glossy hair. "You
_have_ always wanted to do something for her, have n't you? You're a
good girl! Do it! Send her a dollar a week!"
Skinner resumed his place at the table. This was the climax, he thought,
the _ne plus ultra_ of it all! He was to contribute a dollar a week to
his mother-in-law to make up a loss caused by the advice of a detested,
silly-ass brother-in-law, who had always hated him, Skinner. Surely, the
dress-suit account had reached the debt limit! He took out his little
book and jotted down:--
_Dress-Suit Account_
_Debit_ _Credit_
One important lesson!
Never take the first false step!
It's apt to lead, one knows not
whither!
"You don't know how happy you've made me," said Honey, "and I 'm so proud
of you--such strength of character--just like old Solon Wright, you're
doing this for one you positively dislike, Dearie!--moral discipline!"
"Moral discipline, your grandmother!" snapped Skinner; then softly, "I'm
doing it for one I love."
"I would n't have mentioned it if you hadn't got your raise. You know
that!"
His raise! Skinner thought much about "his" raise as he lay in bed that
night. Had he gone too far to back out, he wondered? By Jove, if he did
n't back out, his fast-diminishing bank account would _back_ him out!
The thing would work automatically. Probably in his whole life Skinner
had never suffered so much disgust. Think of it! He must go on paying
mother-in-law a dollar a week forever and ever, amen! No, he'd be hanged
if he'd do it! He'd tell Honey the whole thing in the morning and throw
himself on her mercy. The resolution gave him relief and he went to
asleep.
But he did n't tell Honey in the morning. He was afraid to hurt her. He
thought of his resolution of the night. It's so easy to make
conscience-mollifying resolves in the night when darkness and silence
make cowards of us. No, he could n't tell her now. He'd tell her when
he got home to dinner.
Meantime, things were doing in the private office of McLaughlin &
Perkins, Inc.
"I've thought it over this far, Perk," said McLaughlin.
"Well?"
"Understand, I believe in Skinner absolutely--but--"
"Even _your_ judgment is not infallible, you mean?"
"Exactly."
"So do I believe in him," Perkins said.
"I couldn't offend him for the world," McLaughlin went on. "He's as
sensitive as a cat's tail. I would n't even dare to go into that cage of
his." McLaughlin paused, "Yet we've got to do _something_. We can't
wait till summer when he goes on his vacation. All kinds of things might
happen before then. Time and Wall Street don't wait for anybody--except
magnates!"
"You mean, have an expert accountant go over his books?" said Perkins.
"Certainly, that's what I mean--that's what you mean--that's what's been
in both our minds from the time he began to travel with that Pullman
crowd."
"It ought to be done at once," said Perkins. "If things are not
regular--well, we must protect ourselves. I'm puzzled how to get rid of
him while we're doing it. It's a delicate business," Perkins urged.
"I've got that all figured out, Perk." McLaughlin paused to register the
comedy line that was to follow. "I'm going to send Skinner to St.
Paul--after Willard Jackson!"
The partners were silent for a few moments; then Perkins said, "You
can't, Mac."
"Why not?"
"It's a joke!"
"Of course it's a joke! But it's a harmless joke. You and I are the
only ones that are 'on.' Skinner won't suspect. We'll put it up to him
in dead earnest."
"The worst Jackson can do is to insult him the way he did you," said
Perkins.
"The old dog!" said McLaughlin. He paused. "We'll get Skinner out of
his cage for a while. It'll cost us so much money--we'll add that on to
the expert accountant's bill. Can you think of a better way, Perk?"
"Mac, you're a genius!"
McLaughlin pressed the button marked "cashier."
Perkins put out his hand. "Don't call him yet, Mac. Wait till I get
through laughing."
McLaughlin turned as the "cage man" entered.
"Hello, Skinner. Sit down." He paused a moment to register his next
words. "Skinner, Mr. Perkins and I want you to do something for us."
Skinner looked from one partner to the other. "Yes," he said quietly.
"Two years ago we lost the biggest customer we ever had," McLaughlin
proceeded.
"I know. Willard Jackson--St. Paul."
"Lost him through the stupidity of Briggs," snapped McLaughlin.
Skinner nodded.
"We've been trying to get him back ever since, as you know. We sent our
silver-tongued Browning out there. No good! Then Mr. Perkins went out.
Then I went out. All this you know."
The "cage man" nodded.
McLaughlin paused. "Skinner, we want _you_ to go out to St. Paul and get
him back."
Skinner looked curiously from one partner to the other, but both seemed
to be dead serious.
"But--I'm--I'm not a salesman," the "cage man" stammered.
"That's just it," said McLaughlin earnestly. "There must be something
wrong with the policy or the method or the manners of our salesmen, and
Mr. Perkins and I have thought about it till we're stale. We want to put
a fresh mind on the job."
"Jackson's gone over to the Starr-Bacon folks. They do well by him. How
am I going to pry him loose?" said Skinner.
"We'll do even better by him," said McLaughlin. "You know this business
as well as I do, Skinner. I 'm darned if I don't think you know it
better. You know how closely we can shave figures with our competitors,
I don't care who they are. I 'm going to make you our minister
plenipotentiary. Do as you please, only get Jackson. I don't care if
you take a small loss. We can make it up later. But we want his
business."
Skinner pondered a moment. "Really, Mr. McLaughlin, I don't know what to
say. I'm very grateful to you for such confidence. I 'll do my best,
sir."
"It'll take rare diplomacy, rare diplomacy, Skinner," McLaughlin warned.
"What kind of a man is Mr. Jackson?" Skinner asked presently. "I know
him by his letters, but what kind of man is he to meet?"
"The worst curmudgeon west of Pittsburg," said McLaughlin. "He'll insult
you, he'll abuse you, he might even threaten to assault you like he did
me. But he's got a bank roll as big as Vesuvius--and you know what his
business means to us. Take as much time as you like, spend as much money
as you like, Skinner,--don't stint yourself,--but _get_ Jackson!"
"Have you any suggestions?" said Skinner.
"Not one--and if I had, I would n't offer it. I want you to use your
wits in your own way, unhampered, unencumbered. It's up to you."
"When do you want me to go?"
"Business is business--the sooner the quicker!"
Skinner thought a moment. "Let's see--to-morrow's Sunday. I'll start
Monday morning, if that is satisfactory."
"Fine!" said McLaughlin, rising and shaking hands with his cashier.
Skinner walked to the door, paused, then came halfway back. "What kind
of a woman is Mrs. Jackson, Mr. McLaughlin?"
"Well," said McLaughlin, staggered by the question, "she don't handsome
much and she ain't very young, if that's what you mean."
Skinner blushed. "I didn't mean it that way."
"The only thing I've got against Mrs. Jackson is she's a social climber,"
Perkins broke in.
"The only thing I 've got against her," said McLaughlin, "is--she don't
climb. She wants to, but she don't."
"Is there any particular reason why she does n't climb?" said Skinner.
"Vulgar--ostentatiously vulgar," said McLaughlin.
Skinner smiled. He pondered a moment, then ventured, "Say, Mr.
McLaughlin, it'd be a big feather in my cap if I landed Jackson, wouldn't
it?"
"One of the ostrich variety, my son,--seeing that the great auk is dead,"
said McLaughlin solemnly.
Skinner's voice faltered a bit. "You don't know, Mr. McLaughlin, and
you, Mr. Perkins, how grateful I am for this opportunity. I--I--" He
turned and left the room.
"It's pathetic, ain't it? I feel like a sneak, Perk," said McLaughlin.
"Pathetic, yes," said Perkins. "But it's for his good. If he's all
right, we're vindicating him--if he is n't all right, we want to know it."
The "cage man" whistled softly to himself as he reflected that the awful
day of confessing to Honey was deferred for an indefinite period. It was
a respite. But what gave him profound satisfaction was the fact that
McLaughlin and Perkins were beginning to realize that he could do
something besides stand in a cage and count money. They had made him
their plenipotentiary, McLaughlin said. Gad! That meant full power! By
jingo! He kept on whistling, which was significant, for Skinner rarely
whistled.
And for the first time in his career, when he smelt burning wood pulp and
looked down at the line of messenger boys with a ready-made frown and
caught the eyes of Mickey, the "littlest," smiling impudently at him,
Skinner smiled back.
For the rest of the day, as Skinner sat in his cage, three things kept
running through his head: he's a curmudgeon; she's a climber; and she
_doesn't_ climb. From these three things the "cage man" subconsciously
evolved a proposition:--
Three persons would go to St. Paul, named in order of their importance:
First, Skinner's dress suit; second, Honey; and third, Skinner.