the manager of the c. b. and l. was being shown into the president’s office—not the little room on the upper floor, but the one with the bronze token on the door. the typewriters had been driven out for the day on some pretext of cleaning.
as the manager entered the office, he saw a young man seated at the desk, his round head and broad back absorbed in work. his impatient eye swept the room—no one else!
“i—ah—i wish to see president tetlow,” he said sharply.
the young man at the desk rose and turned slowly, facing him. the manager was conscious of a pair of clear, straight eyes looking into his.
“i asked down below for tetlow,” he said a little less brusquely.
“is it mr. nixon?” said john.
“manager of the c. b. and l.,” said the man.
the slow smile on john’s face made him welcome. “president tetlow asked me to see you, sir—”
“where is he?” there was a flash of suspicion in the tone.
“he was called out of town. an old friend wrote, asking to see him today.”
“did n’t know sim tetlow had any friends—any old ones,” said the manager.
“will you sit down, sir?” said john. he drew forward one of the capacious chairs and the man sank into it, giving a little nip to each trouser leg, just above the knee, before he settled back comfortably, a hand resting on either arm of the big chair. he glanced about the room. “comfortable quarters,” he said.
the young man was standing opposite him.
“president tetlow asked me to give you any details you might wish, sir, and to represent him as far as i can.”
the man in the big chair surveyed him for a moment. “and who might you be?” he asked pleasantly. there was more than a bint of irony in the light words.
“i am john bennett,” said the young man.
“um-m. i am glad to know. and do you hold—any particular position?”
the young man was looking at him steadily. a slow smile had crept into his eyes. “i never thought what i am,” he said.
the manager smiled too—in spite of himself. “you don’t think you ’ve made a mistake in assuming that tetlow expected you to see me?”
john’s eyes were quiet. “no, sir. he said i was to give you all the help i can. i know about the books—orders and correspondence and things like that,” he added after a minute, “i can perhaps tell you what you want to know.”
the manager was searching his memory.... what was it harrington had reported—a new private secretary—he might make trouble? ah, yes—“you have not been here long?” he said abruptly.
“since june,” replied the young man.
“i’m afraid you won’t do,” said the manager, but with a little more respect in his voice. “the deals i want to talk over go back two or three years.”
“i was with president tetlow then,” said john. “i came about four years ago. during the last year i ’ve been off for a while.—my mother was ill.”
“mother was ill?” he whistled softly between his teeth. it might, after all, be good luck that tetlow was away. this simple youth would reveal more in half an hour than simeon would let out in a week.
he would win his confidence.
he settled back a little in the chair. “tetlow a hard man to work for?” he asked casually.
john’s smile answered his, “i guess everybody thinks so,” he said.
the man nodded. “i guess so.—they say he ’s a good deal broken, though—works too hard?”
“he works harder than any man i ever saw,” replied john.
“begins to tell on him, don’t it?” the man seemed to be watching a fly on the window.
“you mean—?” john’s face expressed slow interest.
“i mean he ’s about used up,” said the manager, flashing a look at him.
john shook his head, and the slow smile grew in his face. “you think he ’s used up and then you find—he is n’t. that’s the kind of man president tetlow is.”
the manager gave a dry smile. “i’ve noticed that ’s the kind he is, myself.” he turned suddenly, his eyes boring into the young man. “what ’s all this bother about rates this year!” he asked. “don’t he know the roads can’t stand it?”
“he thinks the country can’t stand it,” said john.
“the country!” the man stared at him, moistening his lips a little with his tongue. he shook his head. “never heard of the country before,” he said.
john smiled. “president tetlow wants to make the ‘r. and q.’ a benefit to the region.” the man sat back in his chair. he spread his legs a little. then he opened his mouth. he laughed. there was affectation in the laugh, perhaps, but beneath it was solid amusement and scorn. “sim tetlow—philanthropist!” he shook his head,—“look out for him!” he said.
“you think he don’t mean it, sir!” said john.
“i think he don’t mean it,” said the big man.
john’s clear eyes looked into the small, fat ones and the man stirred a little in his chair and sat up. “do you believe it?” he asked.
“i know it,” said john. “he does n’t start out on things he can’t carry through.”
“that ’s right,” muttered the man. his face was thoughtful.
“he’s always run the road before for the corporation. he’s running it now for everybody.”
“well, it ’s beyond me.—i don’t make money for everybody.” he seemed to be digesting it.
the young man had taken up some papers from the desk. “president tetlow wanted me to ask you about these,” he said.
“what are they!” the man swung his eyeglasses to his nose and held out his hand. “they are affidavits.... about those harvesters....”
“oh!” the manager sank back a little. he took off the glasses, tapping the table with them. “well!”
“he wanted me to ask what you are going to do about it,” said john.
“what does he expect we ’ll do?” it was smooth and non-committal.
john consulted the paper. “he expects you ’ll pay for them.”
a little look crossed the man’s face. “oh, no. i guess not.”
“he asked me to say that otherwise he will take action.”
the man’s face fell a little. “take it into court—he can’t win.”
“they ’ve just won against the lake shore—those planting machines.”
“that was indiana,” said the man quickly.
“yes, that was indiana. but mckinnon has three or four other similar cases, scattered about. he says they ’ve all won.”
“i told buxton it was a fool thing to do!” muttered the man half under his breath.
“that ’s what president tetlow said,” remarked john quietly.
“um-m—did he? what else did he say?”
john smiled a little. “he said if you were going to try to do him, it was safer to do him inside the law.”
“hm-m—how much is he going to stick us for?”
“twelve thousand.”
“can’t do it,” said the man. he sat up very straight and folded his fingers across his stomach, guarding his rights.
“he said it would be worth that—the whole district has suffered. the crop ’s a dead loss.”
“why don’t he let them fight for themselves?”
“i guess he thinks he ’s more used to it than they are.”
the manager of the c. b. and l. looked at him a moment. “tell him we ’ll settle for ten thousand—and not a cent more.”
john made a note. “i ’ll tell him, sir.”
the man was not in good humor. the calm eyes of the young man, and a certain sense of moral inferiority that came upon him, made him restless; and the obvious respect that this young man felt for the president of the “r. and q.” was not encouraging. but it occurred to the manager suddenly that every man has his price and he drew a little breath of relief, relaxing in his chair.
ten minutes later, when he took up his hat to go, he could not, for the life of him, have told whether the young man, holding open the door for him, was too stupid or too virtuous to take advantage of a very good offer that had been dangled before him. but he had a distinct impression that he should like to overhear some young man in his employ speak of him as this young man was speaking of simeon tetlow.
as he went through the outer room, the manager of the c. b. and l. passed very close to a desk where a bookkeeper was busy with columns of figures. but the manager did not glance that way and the bookkeeper did not lift his busy eyes from the page before him.
