by Rex Beach
HIS STOCK IN TRADE
"The science of salesmanship is quite as exact as the science ofastronomy," said Mr. Gross, casting his eyes down the table to seethat he had the attention of the other boarders, "and much moreintricate. The successful salesman is as much an artist in his line asthe man who paints pictures or writes books."
"Oh, there's nothing so artistic as writing books," protested MissHarris, the manicurist. "Nothing except acting, perhaps. Actors areartistic, too. But salesmen! I meet lots in my business, and I'm notstrong for them."
Mr. Gross smiled at her indulgently; it was an expression that becamehim well, and he had rehearsed it often.
"The power to sell goods is a talent, my dear Miss Harris, just likethe power to invent machinery or to rule a city, or--or--to keep a setof books. Don't you agree with me, Mrs. Green?"
Mrs. Green, the landlady, a brown, gray woman in black, smiledfrigidly. "You're _so_ original, Mr. Gross," said she, "it's apleasure to hear you, I'm sure."
Gross was an impressive talker, due to the fact that he plagiarizedoffice platitudes; he ran on pompously, dropping trade mottoes andshop-worn bits of philosophy until young Mitchell, unable longer toendure the light of admiration he saw in Miss Harris's eyes, rolledup his napkin to the size of a croquette and interrupted by noisilyshoving back his chair and muttering under his breath:
"That stuff comes on printed cards. They give it away."
Mrs. Green called to him, "It's bread pudding, Mr. Mitchell, and verynice."
"Thanks! My gout is bad again," he said, at which some of the morefrivolous-minded boarders snickered.
"Mitchell is a bright boy--in many ways," Gross remarked, a momentlater, "but he's too fresh. I don't think he'll last long at theoffice."
Instead of climbing to his hall kennel on the fourth floor rear, LouisMitchell went out upon the rusty little porch of the boarding-houseand sat down on the topmost step, reflecting gloomily that a clerk hassmall chance against a head bookkeeper.
Life at Mrs. Green's pension--she called it that, rates six dollarsup, terms six dollars down--had not been the same for the youthfulhermit of the hall bedroom since Gross had met him and Miss Harris inthe park a few Sundays before and, falling under the witchery of themanicurist's violet eyes, had changed his residence to coincide withtheirs. Gross now occupied one of the front rooms, and a correspondingplace in the esteem of those less fortunate boarders to whom the merecontemplation of ten dollars a week was an extravagance. Mitchell hadlong adored the blonde manicurist, but once the same roof shelteredher and the magnificent head bookkeeper, he saw his dream of love andtwo furnished rooms with kitchenette go glimmering.
Time was when Miss Harris had been content with Sundays in the park,vaudeville--first balcony--on Wednesdays, and a moving picture now andthen. These lavish attentions, coupled with an occasional assault uponsome delicatessen establishment, had satisfied her cravings for thehigher life. Now that Gross had appeared and sown discord with hisprodigality she no longer cared for animals and band concerts, she hadacquired the orchestra-seat habit, had learned to dance, and, aboveall, she now possessed a subtle refinement in regard to victuals. Shecriticized Marlowe's acting, and complained that cold food gave herindigestion. No longer did she sit the summer evenings out withMitchell, holding his hand in her lap and absent-mindedly buffing hisnails, warning him in sweet familiarity that his cuticle was "growingdown." In consequence of her defection, fierce resentment smoldered inthe young man's breast. He was jealous; he longed to out-squanderthe extravagant Mr. Gross; he lusted to spend money in unstintedquantities, five dollars an evening if or when necessary.
But there seemed little hope of his ever attaining such a purse-proudposition, for while he loomed fairly large in the boarding-houseatmosphere of Ohio Street--or had so loomed until the advent of thereckless bookkeeper--he was so small a part of the office force ofComer & Mathison, jobbers of railway supplies, as to resemble nothingmultiplied by itself. He received twelve dollars a week, to be sure,for making telephone quotations and extending invoices between times;but when, as the evening shadows of pay-day descended and he drew hisenvelope, the procedure reminded him vaguely of blackmail, for anyoffice-boy who did not stutter could have held his job.
When at seven forty-five Miss Harris appeared upon the porch with herhat and gloves and two-dollar-ticket air, and tripped gaily away incompany with Mr. Gross, young Mitchell realized bitterly that the costof living had increased and that it was up to him to raise his salaryor lose his lady.
He recalled Gross's words at supper-time, and wondered if there reallycould be a science to business; if there could be anything to successexcept hard work. Mr. Comer, in his weekly talks to the officeforce, had repeatedly said so--whence the origin of the bookkeeper'swarmed-over wisdom--but Mitchell's duties were so simple and soconstricted as to allow no opening for science, or so, at least, itseemed to him. How could he be scientific, how could he find play forgenius when he sat at the end of a telephone wire and answered routinequestions from a card? Every day the General Railway Sales Managergave him a price-list of the commodities which C. & M. handled, andwhen an inquiry came over the 'phone all he was required, all hewas permitted, to do was to read the figures and to quote time ofdelivery. If this resulted in an order the Sales Manager took thecredit. An open quotation, on the other hand, made Mitchell thesubject of brusque criticism for offering a target to competitors, andwhen he lost an order he was the goat, not the General Railway SalesManager.
No one around the office was too lowly to exact homage from thequotation clerk, and no one was tongue-tied in the matter ofcriticism, hence his position was neither one of dignity nor onethat afforded scope for talent in the money-making line. And yet ifsalesmanship really were a science, Mitchell reasoned, there mustbe some way in which even a switchboard operator could profit byacquiring it. What if he were buckled to the end of a wire? Humannature is the same, face to face or voice to voice; surely then, ifhe set his mind to the task, he could make himself more than a merestring of words over a telephone. Heretofore he had been workingwholly with his fingers, his ear-drums, and his vocal cords; hedetermined henceforth to exercise his intelligence, if he had any. Itwas indeed high time, for Miss Harris was undoubtedly slipping away,lured by luxuries no clerk could afford, and, moreover, he, Mitchell,was growing old; in a scant two years he would be able to vote. Hebegan forthwith to analyze the situation.
There wasn't much to it. His telephone calls came almost whollyfrom the purchasing departments of the various railroads. Dailyrequisitions were filled by the stenographers in those railwayoffices, young ladies who through their long experience were allowedto attend to the more unimportant purchases. It was in quoting priceson these "pick-ups" that Mitchell helloed for eight hours a day.Of course no large orders ever came over his wire, but this smallbusiness carried an unusual profit for supply houses like Comer &Mathison, and in consequence it was highly prized.
After a period of intense and painful thought the young man realized,for the first time, that it was not the telephone itself which askedfor price and time of delivery, but a weak, imaginative human being,like himself, at the other end of the wire. He reasoned further thatif he could convince that person that the voice from Conner & Mathisonlikewise issued from a human throat, then it might be possible to getaway, in a measure at least, from the mechanical part of the businessand establish altogether new relations. If there were really ascience to salesmanship, it would work at long distance as well as atcollar-and-elbow holds, and Mitchell's first task, therefore, shouldbe to project his own personality into the railroad offices. He wentto bed still trying to figure the matter out.
His opportunity to test his new-born theory came on the followingmorning when an irritable female voice over at the Santa Fe asked theprice on twenty kegs of rivets.
"Good morning, Santa Fe-male," he answered, cheerily.
There was a moment of amazed silence, then the young lady snapped:"'Good morning'? What is this, the Weather
Bureau? I want Comer &Mathison."
"Gee! Can't a fellow display a little courtesy in business?" Mitchellinquired. "I'd rather be nice to you than not."
"All right, Mr. Comer," the voice replied, sarcastically. "Make a niceprice on those rivets--and cut out the kidding."
"Listen; my name's not Comer; it's Mitchell. I'm not kidding, either.I want you to ask for me whenever you call up. Every little bit helps,you know."
"Oh, I see. You want the carriage man to call your number. All right,Mitch. If you're out at lunch with Mr. Carnegie the next time I want adozen number ten sheets I'll have you paged at the Union League Club."
If the speaker liked this kind of blank verse, she had called up theright supply house, for Mitchell came back with:
"Say, if I ever get _your_ number, I'll do the calling, Miss SantaFe."
"_W-what_?" came the startled reply.
"I mean what I say. I'd love to call--"
"Is that so? Well, I do all the calling for our, family, and I'm goingto call you right now. What's the price of those rivets?"
"Two sixty-five."
"Too high! Good-by."
"Wait a minute." Mitchell checked the lady before she could "plug out"on him. "Now that you've got those rivets out of your system, may Iget personal for an instant?"
"Just about an instant."
"I could listen to _you_ all day."
"Oops, Horace; he loves me!" mocked the lady's voice.
"See here, I'm a regular person--with references. I've been talking toyou every day for six months, so I feel that we're acquainted. Somepleasant evening, when your crew of hammock gladiators palls on you,let me come around and show you the difference."
"What difference?"
"I'll show you what a real porch-climber is like."
"Indeed! I'll think it over."
Ten minutes later Miss Santa Fe called up again.
"Hello! I want Mitchell, the junior partner."
"This is Mitchell."
"Did you say those rivets were two-fifty?"
"Should they be?"
"They should."
"They are."
"Ship them to Trinidad."
"That's bully of you, Miss Santa Claus. I want to--" But the wire wasdead.
Mitchell grinned. Personality did count after all, and he had provedthat it could be projected over a copper wire.
An hour later when Miss Northwestern called him for a price onstay-bolt iron she did not ring off for fifteen minutes, and at theend of that time she promised to take the first opportunity of havinganother chat. In a similar manner, once the ice had been broken atthe C. & E.I., Mitchell learned that the purchasing agent was at WestBaden on his vacation; that he had stomach trouble and was cranky;that the speaker loved music, particularly Chaminade and George Cohan,although Beethoven had written some good stuff; that she'd been toGrand Haven on Sunday with her cousin, who sold hats out of Clevelandand was a prince with his money, but drank; and that the price oncorrugated iron might be raised ten cents without doing any damage.
On the following afternoon Murphy, the Railroad Sales Manager, stoppedon his way past Mitchell's desk to inquire:
"Say, have you been sending orchids to Miss Dunlap over at the SantaFe? I was in there this morning, and she wanted to know all aboutyou."
"Did you boost me?" Louis inquired. "It won't hurt your sales to plugmy game."
"She said you and she are 'buddies' over the wire. What did she mean?"
"Oh, wire pals, that's all. What kind of a looker is she, Mr. Murphy?"
The Sales Manager shrugged his shoulders. "She looks as if she wasgood to her mother." Then he sauntered away.
Mitchell, in the days that followed, proceeded to become acquaintedwith the Big Four, and in a short time was so close to the Lackawannathat he called her Phoebe Snow. The St. Paul asked for him three timesin one afternoon, and the Rock Island, chancing to ring up while hewas busy, threatened to hang crepe on the round-house if he were notsummoned immediately to enter an order for a manhole crab.
Within a week he became the most thoroughly telephoned person in theoffice, and had learned the tastes, the hopes, the aims, and theambitions of his respective customers. Miss C. & E.I., for instance,whose real name was Gratz, was a bug on music; Miss Northwestern wasliterary. She had read everything Marion Crawford ever wrote, andconsidered her the greatest writer Indiana had produced, but was sorryto learn from Mitchell that her marriage to Capt. Jack Crawford hadturned out so unhappily--some men were brutes, weren't they? There wasa hidden romance gnawing at the Big Four's heart, and Phoebe Snowhad a picture of James K. Hackett on her desk and wanted to start apoultry farm. The Santa Fe had been married once, but had taken hermaiden name, it was so much pleasanter in business.
As Mitchell's telephone orders piled up, day after day, Murphy beganto treat him more like an employee than a "hand," and finally offeredhim a moderate expense account if he cared to entertain his railroadtrade. When the young man's amazement at this offer had abatedsufficiently for him to accept he sent the office-boy around to theSanta Fe on the run, instructing him to size up Miss Dunlap andreport. It was the first order he had ever issued in the office, andthe news spread quickly that he had been "raised."
Mr. Gross took occasion to congratulate the despised underling withpompous insincerity, whereat Louis admonished him scowlingly to beatit back to his trial balance or he'd bounce a letter-press on hisdome.
When the office-boy reappeared he turned in a laconic report, "She's apeach!"
Mitchell sweated the lad for further details, then nearly strained atendon in getting to the telephone booth.
"Hello, Miss Dunlap," he called. "Are you tied up for to-night?"
"I'm knot. The k is silent."
"Will you go to the theater with me?"
"Nickelodeon?"
"No, Montgomery and Stone."
The lady muttered something unintelligible, then she titterednervously. "Those top balconies make me dizzy."
"How about the orchestra--sixth row? Could you keep your head there?"
"You must own a bill-board."
"No, it's a bank-book; same initials, you see. I'm an heiress."
"See here, Mitch"--Miss Dunlap became serious--"you're a good littlecopper-wire comedian, but I don't know you nor your people."
"Well, I come from one of the oldest families in Atwood, Michigan, andthat town was settled over thirty years ago."
"But you don't know me," the lady demurred.
"I do, too. You're a tall blonde, gray eyes, blue dress; you have adimple--"
"Well, I declare! All right, then; seven-thirty to-night, six hundredand twelve Filbert Street, fourth apartment, and many thanks."
Fifteen minutes before the appointed time Louis Mitchell was fidgetingnervously outside the Filbert Street cold-water "walk-up" known asGeraldine Manor, wondering if Miss Dunlap would notice his clothes.Twelve dollars a week had starved his wardrobe until it resembled theback-drop for a "Pity the Blind" card; but promptly on the minutehe punched the button at the fourth apartment. An instant later herealized that no matter how he looked he had it on Miss Dunlap byeighty per cent.
She was a blonde, to be sure, for the time being, and by the grace ofH_{2}O_{2}. One glance convinced her caller of two things--_viz_.,that his office-boy did not care much for peaches, and that the SantaFe purchasing agent had a jealous wife. The most that possibly couldbe said in praise of Miss Dunlap's appearance was that she was thelargest stenographer in Chicago. Then and there, however, her callerqualified as a salesman; he smiled and he chatted in a free and easyway that had the lady roped, thrown, and lashed to his chariot inthree minutes by her alarm-clock.
They went to the theater, and when Montgomery sprang a joke or Stonedid a fall Miss Dunlap showed her appreciation after the fashion of alaughing hyena. Between times she barked enthusiastically, giving ventto sounds like those caused when a boy runs past a picket fence with astick in his hand. She gushed, but so does Old Faithful. Anyh
ow, theaudience enjoyed her greatly.
At supper Mitchell secured parking space for his companion at theUnion Cafe, and there he learned how a welsh rabbit may be humiliatedby a woman. During the _debacle_ he fingered the money in his pocket,then shut his eyes and ordered a bottle of champagne, just to see ifit could be done. Contrary to his expectation, the waiter did notswoon; nor was he arrested. Root-beer had been Mitchell's mainintoxicant heretofore, but as he and the noisy Miss Dunlap sipped theeffervescing wine over their ice-cream, they pledged themselves toenjoy Monday evenings together, and she told him, frankly:
"Mitch, you're the nickel-plated entertainer, and I'll never missanother Monday eve unless I'm in the shops or the round-house. Youcertainly have got class."
At breakfast Miss Harris regarded Lotus darkly, for Mr. Gross had toldher just enough to excite her curiosity.
"Where were you last night?" she inquired.
"I went to a show."
"Were the pictures good?"
"They don't have pictures at the Grand."
"Oh--h!" The manicurist's violet eyes opened wide. "Louis--you _drank_something. You're awful pale. What was it?"
"Clicquot! That's my favorite brand."
Miss Harris clutched the table-cloth and pulled a dish into her lap.After a moment she said: "Maybe you'll take me somewhere to-night. Wehaven't been out together for the longest time."
"Oh, I see! This is Gross's night at the Maccabbees', isn't it?" Louisgloated brutally over her confusion. "Sorry, but I'll probably have toentertain some more customers. The firm is keeping me busy."
At the office things went most pleasantly for the next few weeks;sixty per cent. of the city's railroad business came to Comer &Mathison; the clerks began to treat Mitchell as if he were an equal;even Gross lost his patronizing air and became openly hateful, whileMurphy--Louis no longer called him Mister--increased his assistant'sexpense account and confided some of his family affairs to the latter.Mr. Comer, the senior partner, began to nod familiarly as he passedthe quotation clerk's desk.
Nor were Louis's customers all so eccentric as Miss Dunlap. PhoebeSnow, for instance, was very easy to entertain, and the Northwesterntook to his custody like a hungry urchin to a barbecue. He gave themeach one night a week, and in a short time all his evenings weretaken, as a consequence of which he saw less and less of Miss Harris.But, although he and his manicurist were becoming strangers, he soonbegan to call the waiters at Rector's by their given names, and anumber of the more prominent cab-drivers waved at him.
One morning when, for the tenth successive time, he slid into hisdesk-chair an hour late, Mr. Comer bowed to him, not only familiarly,but sarcastically, then invited him to step into his private officeand see if he could locate the center of the carpet. It was ageometrical task that Louis had been wishing to try for some time.
The senior partner began with elaborate sarcasm. "I notice you'renot getting down until nine o'clock lately, Mr. Mitchell. Is yourautomobile out of order?"
"I have no automobile, Mr. Comer," the youth replied, respectfully.
"No? I'm surprised. Well, if eight sharp is too early, you may setyour time."
Mitchell tried his best to appear disconcerted. "You know I'm busyevery evening with my trade," said he.
"Nonsense. I've seen you out with a different dressmaker every nightthat I've been down-town."
"Those are not dressmakers, they are stenographers from the railroadoffices. I'm sorry you're not satisfied with me, but I'm glad youcalled me in, for I've been meaning to speak to you about this verything. You see, I have practically all the railroad business in thecity, and it takes too much of my time keeping it lined up. I have noleisure of my own. I'll quit Saturday night, if convenient."
Mr. Comer grunted like a man who has stepped off a flight of stairsone step too soon. "I didn't know it was really business. Of course,if it is, why, you needn't quit--exactly--"
"I'm afraid I'll have to." Mitchell dropped his eyes demurely. "I'vehad a number of offers, and in justice to myself--"
"Offers? _You_? How much?"
"One hundred a month and expenses."
Mr. Comer removed his glasses, he polished them carefully, then hereadjusted them and leaned forward, looking the young man over fromhead to foot, as if he had never until this moment seen more than hisvague outlines.
"Um-m! You're nineteen years old, I believe!"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then, an hour's delay won't be serious. Now you go back toyour desk and send Mr. Murphy here. I'll let you know shortly whetherSaturday night or this noon will be convenient."
It was perhaps a half-hour before lunch-time when Mr. Comer againcalled for Mitchell, greeting him with the gruff inquiry:
"See here, do you think I'm going to advance you from twelve totwenty-five a week at one clip?"
"No, sir."
"Humph! I'm not. I had a talk with Murphy. I think he's a liar, butI'm going to make it fifteen hundred a year and expenses. Now get busyand work your 'trade' for all it's worth."
Young Mitchell's knees wabbled, but, having learned the value of ablack mask and a gun, he went through his victim thoroughly while hehad him down.
"I'd like a traveling position the first of the year, sir, if youdon't mind."
"All right! If you hold your present gait I'll give you the Westernroads. Anything else you'd like? Well, then, git!"
That day Louis switched from the narrow-countered bakery-lunch routeto regular standard-gauge restaurants; he ordered clothes like abookmaker's bride and he sent a cubic foot of violets to Miss Harris.At dinner-time he patronized Mr. Gross so tantalizingly that thelatter threatened to pull his nose out until it resembled a yard ofgarden hose.
The whole boarding-house was agog at Mitchell's good fortune andMiss Harris smiled on him in a manner reminiscent of the good oldante-bookkeeper--one might say "ante-vellum"--days. She hinted thatMr. Gross's company did not wholly satisfy her soul-hunger, and evenconfessed that she was lonely; but this was Mitchell's Rock Islandevening, and although the frank surrender in Miss Harris's eyes causedhim to gasp as if he were slowly settling into a barrel of ice-water,he tore himself from her side.
Louis's batting average would have reached one thousand had it notbeen for the Monon. Miss Day, the young lady there, had a vocabularylimited to "Hello," "Too high," and "Good-by," and it becameparticularly galling to learn that the fellow at James & Naughten'swas pulling down the business, so Mitchell went to Murphy with aproposition which showed that his mental growth had kept pace with hisfinancial advancement.
"You need a new stenographer," he declared.
"Oh, do I? Why do I need a new stenographer, Mr. Bones?"
"Well, it would be a good investment, and I know a corker."
"Who is she?"
"Miss Day, of the Monon."
"I didn't know you cared for Miss Day."
"I don't. That's the reason I want her to work for you."
Murphy coughed slightly, then he agreed. "You're learning the game.We'll give her a three-dollar raise, and take her on."
Shortly thereafter Mitchell began to get acquainted with the new MissMonon along the right lines, and gave her Thursday nights. She was agreat improvement over Miss Day; she was, in fact, quite differentfrom any of the others. She was small and winsome, and she didn't careto run around. She liked her home, and so did Mitchell after he hadcalled a few times. Before long he began to look forward eagerlyto Thursday nights and Miss Monon's cozy corner with its red-plushcushions--reminiscent of chair-cars, to be sure--and its darknessillumined dimly by red and green signal lamps. Many a pleasant eveningthe two spent there, talking of locomotive planished iron, wirenails, and turnbuckles, and the late lunch Miss Monon served beat thesystem's regular buffet service a city block. Of course they lit thered fire in front of James & Naughten's and turned the green lightMitchell's way. He had the right of way on the Monon after that, andother salesmen were side-tracked.
But this was too easy to last. Human affai
rs never run smoothly; it isa man's ability to surmount the hummocks and the pressure ridges thatenables him to penetrate to the polar regions of success. The firstinkling of disaster came to Mitchell when Miss Dunlap began to tireof the gay life and chose to spend her Monday evenings at home, wherethey might be alone together. She spoke of the domestic habits she hadacquired during her brief matrimonial experience; she boldly declaredthat marriage was the ideal state for any man, and that two could liveas cheaply as one, although personally she saw no reason why a girlshould quit work the instant she became a wife, did he? She confessedthat Monday evenings had become so pleasant that if Louis couldarrange to drop in on Fridays also, the week would be considerablybrightened thereby and her whole disposition improved. Now Fridayswere cinched tightly to the Big Four, but the young man dared notacknowledge it, so he confessed that all his evenings except Mondaywere taken up with night school, whereupon Miss Dunlap, in orderto keep abreast of his mental development, decided to take acorrespondence course in Esperanto.
It transpired also that his attentions toward the Lackawanna hadbeen misconstrued, for one night when Phoebe bade him adieu in thevestibule she broke down and wept upon his shoulder, saying that hiscoldness hurt her. She confessed that a rate clerk in the freightdepartment wanted to marry her, and she supposed she'd have to accepthis dastardly proposal because a girl couldn't go on working allher life, could she? Then Miss Gratz, of the C. & E.I., following ared-letter night at Grand Opera, succeeded by a German pancake and astein at the Edelweiss and a cab-ride home, took Louis gravely to taskfor his extravagance and hinted that he ought to have a permanentmanager who took an interest in him, one who loved music as he did andwhose tastes were simple and Teutonic.
When the literary lady of the Northwestern declined a trip to theWhite City and began to read Marion Crawford aloud to him Louis awoketo the gravity of the situation.
But before he had worked the matter out in his own mind that rateclerk of whom Miss Lackawanna had spoken dropped in at Comer &Mathison's, introduced himself to Mitchell and told him, with a degreeof firmness which could not be ignored, that his attentions to MissPhoebe Snow were distasteful. He did not state to whom. Louis's callerhad the physical proportions of a "white hope," and he wasted fewwords. He had come to nail up a vacate notice, and he announced simplybut firmly that Miss Snow's Wednesday evenings were to be consideredopen time thereafter, and if Mitchell elected to horn his way in itwas a hundred-to-one shot that he'd have to give up solid foods for amonth or more and take his nourishment through a glass tube.
Nor were the young man's troubles confined to the office. Miss Harris,it seemed, had seen him with a different lady each night she and Mr.Gross had been out, and had drawn her own conclusions, so, therefore,when he tried to talk to her she flared up and called him a dissipatedroue, and threatened to have the head bookkeeper give him a thrashingif he dared to accost her again.
Now the various apartments where Mitchell had been calling, these pastmonths, were opulently furnished with gifts from the representativesof the various railway supply houses of the city, each article beingcunningly designed to cement in the mind of the owner a source ofsupply which, coupled with price and delivery, would make for goodsales service. He was greatly surprised one day to receive a brasslibrary lamp from the Santa Fe the initial destination of which hadevidently been changed. Then came a mission hall-clock in the originalpackage, redirected in the hand of Miss Gratz, of the C. & E.I., andone day the office-boy from the Lackawanna brought him a smoking-setfor which Miss Phoebe Snow had no use. Gifts like these piledup rapidly, many of them bearing witness to the fact that theirconsignment originated from Mitchell's very rivals in the railroadtrade. Judging from the quantity of stuff that ricocheted from theSanta Fe it was Miss Dunlap's evident desire to present him with awhole housekeeping equipment as quickly as possible. Louis's deskbecame loaded with ornaments, his room at Mrs. Green's became filledwith nearly Wedgwood vases, candlesticks, and other bric-a-brac. Heacquired six mission hall-clocks, a row of taborets stood outside ofhis door like Turkish sentinels, and his collection of ash-receiverswas the best in Chicago.
Miss Harris continued to ignore him, however, and he learned with ajealous pang that she was giving Mr. Gross a gratuitous course offacial massage and scalp treatments. No longer did Mitchell entertainhis trade; they entertained him. They tried to help him save hismoney, and every evening he was forced to battle for his freedom.
In desperation he finally went to Murphy begging quick promotion to atraveling position, but the Sales Manager told him there was no chancebefore the first of the year, then asked him why he had lost his gripon the Lackawanna business.
As a matter of fact, since Miss Phoebe's rate clerk had declaredhimself Mitchell had slipped a few Wednesday nights, trusting tohold the Lackawanna trade by virtue of his past performances, but herealized in the light of Murphy's catechism that eternal visiting isthe price of safety. He sighed, therefore, and called up the lady,then apprehensively made a date.
That visit issued in disaster, as he had feared. The rate clerk,gifted with some subtle second sight, had divined his treachery andwas waiting. He came to meet the caller gladly, like a paladin. Louisstrove to disarm the big brute by the power of the human eye, thenwhen that did not work he explained, politely, earnestly, that hisweekly calls were but part and parcel of his business, and that therewas nothing in his mind so remote as thoughts of matrimony. But therate clerk was a stolid, a suspicious person, and he was gnawed bya low and common jealousy. Reason failing, they came together,amalgamating like two drops of quicksilver.
On the following morning Mitchell explained to Mr. Comer thatin stepping out of the bathtub he had slipped and wrenched bothshoulders, then while passing through the dark hall had put his faceinto mourning by colliding with an open door. His ankles he hadsprained on the way down-town.
About nine-thirty Miss Dunlap called up, but not to leave an order.When she had finally rung off Louis looked dazedly at the wire to seeif the insulation had melted. It seemed impossible that rubber andgutta-percha could withstand such heat as had come sizzling from theSanta Fe. From what the lady had said it required no great inductivepowers to reason that the rate clerk had told all. Coming victoriousto Miss Lackawanna's door to have his knuckles collodionized he hadmade known in coarse, triumphant language the base commercialism ofhis rival.
The result had been that Phoebe arose in her wrath. Just to verify thestory she had called up the other railroad offices this morning,and the hideous truth had come out. It had come out like a herd ofjack-rabbits ahead of a hound. Miss Dunlap was shouting mad, butPhoebe herself, when she called up, was indignant in a mean, sarcasticmanner that hurt. The Northwestern rang Mitchell to say good-byforever and to hope his nose was broken; the Big Four promised thather brother, who was a puddler in the South Chicago steel mills, wouldrun in and finish the rate clerk's job; Miss Gratz, of the C.&E.I.,was tearfully plaintive and, being German, spoke of suicide. Of courseall business relations with these offices were at an end.
During that whole day but one 'phone order came, and that was fromMiss Monon. Mitchell had been steeling himself to hear from her, butit seemed that she took the whole thing as rather a good joke. Shetold him she had known all the time why he came to see her, and whenhe reminded her that it was Thursday she invited him to call if hethought it worth while.
When he saw Miss Harris at supper-time and undertook to explain hisblack eyes she assured him coldly that he and his ebony gig-lampsmattered nothing in her young life, as evidence of which she flashed amagnificent three-quarter carat diamond solitaire on her third finger.She and Mr. Gross expected to be married inside of two or three yearsif all went well, she told him.
At eight o'clock, disguised behind a pair of blue goggles, Louisheaded for Miss Monon's door, glad that the cozy corner was so dimlylighted. When he arrived she bathed his battle-scarred features withhamamelis, which is just the same as Pond's Extract, but doesn't costso much, and told him the other g
irls had acted foolishly. She wasvery sweet and gentle with him and young Mitchell, imperfect as washis vision, saw something in her he had never seen before.
A week went by, during which it seemed that all the railroads exceptthe Monon had suddenly gone out of business. It was as if a strike hadbeen declared. Another week passed and Mitchell's sales were scarcelynoticeable, so Mr. Comer called him in to ask:
"Is your 'phone disconnected?"
"No, sir."
"Do you know the price of our goods?"
"Yes, sir."
"Don't you sleep well at home?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then what has become of those pick-ups?"
"I seem to have lost--my trade."
"Your 'trade'! Bah! Young man, you've been dissipating. That expenseaccount turned your head. You've been blowing in our money on yourfriends and you've let your customers go. If you can't hold therailroad business we'll get some fellow who can. Cut out yoursewing-circle wine suppers and your box parties to the North Shoredebutantes and get busy. You've got a week to make good. One week."
There wasn't the slightest chance, and Mitchell told Miss Mononso when Thursday came around. He told her all about that promisedposition on the road and what it meant to him, and then he told herthat beginning Monday he'd have to hunt a new berth at twelve dollarsper. She was very quiet, very sympathetic--so sympathetic, in fact,that he told her some other things which no young man on a diminishingsalary should tell. She said little at the moment, but she didconsiderable thinking, and she got busy on her 'phone early the nextmorning. The first number she called was the Santa Fe's. When she hadfinished talking with Miss Dunlap that hempen-haired sentimentalistwas dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief and blowing her nose,assuring Miss Monon, at the same time, that she was a dear and thatit was all right now that she knew the truth. Miss Monon blushedprettily, thanked her, and confessed that she had felt it coming onfor some time. Thereupon they took turns calling the others, from theBig Four to the C.&E.I., with the result that Mitchell's wire began toheat up.
Phoebe Snow called him to say that she hadn't meant what she said,that he was a good old scout, and that the rate clerk was sorry also,and wanted to stand treat for a Dutch lunch. Then she left an orderfor a ton and a half of engine bolts.
Miss Gratz cried a little when she heard Mitchell's voice and told himto make his own price on forty kegs of washers and suit himself aboutdelivery.
Miss Dunlap confessed that it was her pride which had spoken, and,anyhow, she knew altogether too much about marriage to take anotherchance. She'd rather have one man friend than three husbands.
One by one the flock returned, and Saturday night Mitchell sent fivepounds of chocolates and a sheaf of red roses to the one who had madeit all come out right. He got his share of business after that, andwhen the holidays came they brought him his promotion.
Murphy, who knew most of the facts, was the first to congratulate him."Jove!" he said, "that little Monon lady saved your bacon, didn't she?By. the way, you never told me what her name was."
Young Mitchell's cheeks assumed a shell-pink shade as he replied: "Itdoesn't matter what her name was, it's Mitchell now. We were marriedyesterday and--all the roads were represented at the wedding."
