The Show-Down (Hall)

by Holworthy Hall

For works with similar titles, see Show-Down.

The Show-down

BY HOLWORTHY HALL

HE was thirty-two, pleasant and impressive to look at, and blessed with as much intelligence as is necessary to earn eight or ten thousand a year by selling clever lithographing for a New York corporation. He had transient friends in every city east of St. Louis; he called a number of "merchant princes" by their first names; and in his time he had bought cigars for a full regiment of captains of industry. It follows that he enjoyed an unlimited expense account, and justified it by his welcome habit of bringing home the orders. So, when his sales-manager received an inquiry from the Iroquois Biscuit Company, mentioning half a million six-color catalogues, he naturally selected Kendall to run up the state for a solicitation on the ground; and because the health and humor of good salesmen is almost as tangible an asset as bankable funds, he told him to stop over at Buffalo on the way, and be sure to get a good night's sleep.

Accordingly, Kendall stopped at Buffalo; and when the hotel clerk saw him he ran a pen through a reservation just made by telegraph from the West, and assigned him the best room in the house. The porter who carried the bags took a grin and a dime as cheerfully as a quarter from a stranger; and the head waiter respectfully declined to accept a demand for fried oysters, and told why. He said that they weren't exactly up to Mr. Kendall's standard, and suggested a steak. Later the billiard-room marker greeted Kendall with great cordiality, rang the bell himself, and even as the victor in a little session at three-cushions refused to allow his friend to sign the check. This wasn't simply because it was Buffalo. The same procedure would apply anywhere on the main line, proving that Kendall was a good salesman.

Having finished his billiards, Kendall went out to the café, where he found a young man, in the correct dress for young men, discoursing fluently upon the futility of human endeavor. And as Kendall seated himself at a small table and prepared to profit from the free lecture, the young man paused, hesitated, and then came smilingly over to him, holding out his hand.

"Hello!" he said. "Hel-lo! I'm Bobby Huntington. Who are you?"

Kendall laughed. He, too, he remembered, had once been young and irresponsible.

"I'm only a spectator," he admitted, "and an admirer of logic."

Within the quarter-hour they were friends; or at least Huntington was. Beginning with a summary of the deficiencies in his education, he passed on to the nature of society in the small town, to the essentials of heroism, and to the qualities which, if he were ever married, he should require in his wife. If he should sometime condescend to marry one of the sex, he should choose a rather plump one, fond of dancing and light wines, and not a suffragist. There was no chance of his marrying the wrong girl; … he was invariably most diplomatic in his correspondence. And that reminded him—wasn't Mr. Kendall going to New York? To-morrow night? Excellent! Would he be kind enough to mail a letter in New York? Many thanks, and no hurry at all.

They were friends, or at least Huntington was, for another quarter-hour before Kendall could escape him; and the opportunity came with the arrival of a big, boyish, clean-skinned man in frequently-worn cheviot. At sight of this man Mr. Huntington leaped from his chair and advanced.

"Take him; he's yours," said Kendall, generously. "He's doing thirty minutes of refined monologue, and the second show is about to commence."

Mr. Huntington turned to the new-comer. "I was bored!" he said. "I was bored, … and I talked to him, and now he thinks— Oh, what do I care what he thinks! You sit down and talk to me!"

On his way up-stairs Kendall dropped into the billiard-room to ask the marker what manner of kindergarten the hotel had adopted as a side-line.

"Huntington? He's a rare bird, isn't he?"

"He isn't the best advertisement in the world, Pa."

"Oh, he doesn't have a room here," said the marker, contemptuously. "He just comes in to use the stationery. I'd shoot you another game if I wasn't so busy—"

"That's all right, Pa. Happen to know when the Iroquois trains run? The clerk says they've shifted the schedule."

"Somebody asked me that once before to-night. It changed yesterday."

"Nobody from Continental Litho, was it?"

"No, I don't recollect who it was, … but the first train is six-forty-seven—gets there about noon. And the next is eight-forty. Here's a folder."

"Fine!" said Kendall, appreciatively. "Get up for a six-forty-seven? I'll be ashamed to look my watch in the face! Well, there's one consolation, Pa.… I'll sell ten thousand dollars' worth of printing to-morrow, if I ever get there."

"In Iroquois? Go on!"

"Bet you the cigars."

The marker shook his head.

"Gosh!" he said. "I didn't know there was that much money in the whole town. Hello! Here's the Duke again! Maybe you can get a game with him."

Young Mr. Huntington, cherubic but dim of eye, was leaning comfortably against the frame of the nearest door.

"Sorry," he alleged. "I can't afford it."

"Oh, come on. We'll play for the check and the smokes."

"Sorry. The only indoor sport I can stand to-night is conversation."

"Then," said Kendall, "you'll have to shoot me a game, Pa."

They played until midnight; so that it wasn't until he was in his room that Kendall read the folder thoroughly. Iroquois, he found, was a hundred and twenty miles distant, and the schedule called for five hours each way.

"That," said Kendall to himself, as he instructed the office to call him in season for the eight-forty, "is what we call service plus!"

So he got out the dummy and estimate he had brought along, and raised the price five per cent.

 

The time given herein [stated the folder] shows when trains may be expected to arrive and depart, but it is not guaranteed, nor does this company assume any responsibility therefor.

 

Kendall called the attention of the conductor to this paragraph.

"What I want to know," he said, "is, if anybody expects this train to arrive anywhere? It seems to spend all its time departing. Of course I know the tracks are slippery when it rains, but—"

"We're pulling in now," apologized the conductor. "We're only an hour late."

"Pulling in where?"

"Iroquois."

"I wouldn't have believed it," said Kendall, staring at the dripping landscape. "I thought it was Venice. What's the best hotel?"

"The best? I should say the Union House."

Kendall went to the Union House in the hack. He found it a structure built when the guests liked to look at engravings of Niagara Falls, and considered white marble a very tasty material for the surface portions of ordinary furniture. But there was a dining-room, and a special dispensation for cash customers even at three in the afternoon; and there was a waitress wearing a coiffure which would have been fashionable on Fifth Avenue—in 1906; and there was roast-beef and Irish stew and ham and eggs (choice of one). Afterward Kendall telephoned to the biscuit company, and learned that the president would see him immediately.

The rain had stopped; the sun was trying to shine; and Kendall needed exercise. The clerk said it was about a mile. Ten minutes later a passer-by opined that it was about a mile. "But now," he said, grimly, to himself, as he lifted his feet out of the water to put them down in the mud, "I'm going to sell these people." And mentally he increased his prices by five per cent.

He was little heartened by his impression of the Iroquois Biscuit Company. It wasn't a factory; it was more like a ruin—a vast, shambling building, fifty yards from the road and ten feet above it, surrounded by unkempt trees, and set off by the terraced and weed-grown conceptions of an inefficient landscape surgeon. The entrance was by way of a narrow, jig-saw stoop, with galvanized iron crenelations along the ridge; and twin lions of terra-cotta panted amiably at each other from the foot of the steps. Behind, a swale of a thousand acres lay steaming peaceably; and a spur track with a lonely freight-car on it came creeping out of the marshes to take the company by surprise in the rear.

Inside, the building was cold and depressing. There was a sort of lobby, thrust like a poor relation into the coldest and dimmest corner, and here, at an ancient desk, Kendall perceived a small girl chewing gum and checking invoices. She took his message, and giggled, and departed, leaving him to gather what inspiration he could from the clatter of typewriters and of sharp voices floating over the ceiled partitions; and from the dull rumbling of machines overhead.

Incontinently, he sneezed. "Now," he said to himself, "I've got a cold!"

The small girl reappeared.

"Go right up-stairs," she said. "First door to the right. Walk right in." And she giggled intelligently.

Kendall went up a bare, disconsolate chute, rapped at a door with his knuckles, and turned the knob. Before him a tiny office sprang into perspective: a most unbusiness-like little office, with a rag rug on the floor, dimity curtains at the windows, and a chintz-covered sofa between them; geraniums in red pots along the sill; a mahogany flat-top desk with nothing on it, not even dust; and to one side a little mahogany table, at which sat a woman of perhaps forty, knitting.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I was looking for the president—"

"I'm the president," said the woman, smiling. "Won't you sit down?" Her tone was rather more hospitable than executive; and, too, she kept on knitting. She made Kendall feel both intrusive and lazy. And she was a wonderfully sweet-faced woman.

Dazedly he sat down, and the president smiled understandingly.

"A good many people are astonished," she said. "But I've been here for two years now. Ever since Dr. Roberts died." She understood the expression he was wearing, and smiled again. "People are astonished at my office, too.… But why, when I spend two-thirds of my waking hours here, should it be any less livable than a room in my own house?"

"It's very charming," he murmured. "And … are you the manager of the company—" he hesitated. "Is it Mrs. Roberts?"

She inclined her head, graciously. "Mrs. Roberts. Yes, I'm the titular head, … and I supervise nearly everything. Of course I have competent assistants and department heads—I don't pretend to be omniscient—"

"Would you naturally talk about printing?"

"Not naturally," said the president with a wry little smile. "It's a developed taste. And the absolutely final word I always leave to my treasurer, Mr. Gaylord; but I'm interested."

"I came up here," he told her, "on account of an inquiry sent to my firm. It mentioned a very large number of catalogues in several colors, and so I came prepared to plan with you, and show you what we can do, and agree on prices, and … in the first place, I want to be constructive. I want our service department to work for you. I want not simply to manufacture a lot of booklets, but to be an actual link in your campaign. And so before we go very deeply into the mechanical part of it I'd like to know what the catalogues are for. Who's to get them, and under what circumstances? Are they sent broadcast, or only to those who ask for them? Are they included in packages of your goods, or mailed? What effect do you want to produce? What—"

"Why, I want them to help sell our biscuit for us!" said the president, surprisedly. "You see, we've never advertised. We're going to advertise very soon, and then, when people are kind enough to write to us for catalogues, we must have something attractive to send them."

"Attractive," he agreed, "but consistent. It all depends on the effect you're aiming at. It might be the best plan for you to let me know the exact nature of your campaign. It's just possible that I might be able to make a new suggestion or two. For instance, these booklets are to be sent to prospective customers—consumers, I take it, and not dealers. Well, what sort of people are they likely to be? That is, will their names come from country newspaper advertising or from literary magazines?"

The president regarded him earnestly.

"I don't see what difference that makes," she puzzled. "Biscuit are biscuit—eaters are eaters. We've made an appropriation of fifty thousand dollars for advertising, and now we must have some good printed matter." Across the swales a train whistled mournfully. Through the window Kendall could see it picking its way through the miasmatic swamps; and he saw, too, a handkerchief fluttering from a car platform. The president raised the window a foot, and allowed her own handkerchief to snap crisply in the freshening breeze. "I always wave to them," she said, apologetically. "Don't you?"

"Usually," he said. "Here, let me put that down for you. I was just going to ask if you have an advertising agent."

"No," said the president, putting her knitting away in a drawer of the table. "I don't see the advantage in having one, Mr. Kendall, because I use my own judgment. You see, I won't let any one share the responsibility of this business with me. If it's to fail—"

"Fail!" he echoed. "Why, that isn't the way to talk—"

"Let me explain—then you can judge how important this campaign is. The recipe for our crackers was invented by Dr. Roberts, primarily for a patient of his; then he decided to put them on the market. He built this plant; he financed it himself. It was a one-man enterprise. He didn't want to involve anybody else. And it was never successful, … although sometimes it paid expenses. The doctor was hampered by lack of capital, and then by credit, … and finally, just when it seemed as though the road were clear, he died, … and I'm trying to realize his dream for him—a national product made in Iroquois. I said he was hampered by lack of capital.… I had some money which he wouldn't touch, and I put that in. We've doubled our sales, but the overhead is greater. And competition is keen, you know. So we're trying out this advertising as very nearly the last resort; and obviously the catalogues, the circulars, the advertisements themselves, will have to be very convincing. If we make any arrangement with you, it will have to be for the best possible work, Mr. Kendall, … and at the very lowest price." She paused, and caught her breath. "I'll put the last atom of my energy into this business," she said, "and, if it's necessary, my last cent, but for the doctor's sake, if for nothing else, it must go."

"You've taken a big contract, Mrs. Roberts."

"You mean for a woman, don't you? It wouldn't seem very big for a man."

"Do you really mean that this one splurge in advertising is your final word, Mrs. Roberts?"

She smiled ruefully.

"Last year," she told him, "we came out exactly even. This year we're falling off. The money we'll spend for advertising is my own money—it's all there is. But I'm absolutely confident! I'm confident in our biscuit, and I'm confident in my advisers. And I'm confident in good printing. Unfortunately, I don't know much about it. So for the details you'll have to see Mr. Gaylord, our treasurer. I trust him implicitly. It would simply be a waste of time for you to show me your samples—and Mr. Gaylord is in New York. He'll be back to-morrow, if you can wait."

"In New York?"

"Yes. He went down to superintend the opening of our New York office. My nephew will be in charge of it. I'm very fortunate in having two men to depend on in these emergencies."

"And he'll be back to-morrow?"

"Quite early. I hope it's worth your while to stay."

To himself he said that he intended to get this order if it took a month; to the president he intimated that his time was as nothing. And so, after a few more sentences, he accepted her eager invitation to inspect the factory.

When he left it, he was troubled; and his perplexity wasn't quieted by the fact that a fine mist, singularly dank and penetrating, was beginning to creep in from the marshes. On his walk to the Union House he reflected that rarely had he seen such a splendid woman so enthusiastic over so unpromising a situation. He decided that she must have money; and that it was none of his concern how she spent it.

"Well," he said to the hotel clerk, "I've got to stay with you. What is there to do in this town? I don't mean when it's normal and lively—I mean when it's raining."

"Not much," conceded the clerk, fingering his scarf-pin, which, if genuine, would have been worth three Union Houses. "There's not much doing this time of year.

"Any old thing. Moving pictures?"

"Yes; but they only run on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday."

"Where's the news-stand?" he demanded, brusquely.

"Three blocks north."

"For the love of Mike!" exploded Kendall. "I can't go out in this rain again. It's a regular cloud-burst. You can send a boy, can't you?"

"He's sick," said the clerk, shooting his cuffs. "I'd go myself, but I can't."

"Well, you can call a hack, or a truck, or something, can't you?"

The clerk wound up the local telephone, and spoke languidly:

"Hello, Aggie! … Yes, dear.… You're feeling fine to-day; how d'you look? … Any news? … No? … Oh, I'm able to sit up for a little nourishment.… Yes, one feller from town. … Guess he likes our cooking; he's going to stay.… Say, call up the stable, will you? I want a rig.… Sure, I want a covered rig! What d'you think he is, a trout? … A' right, Aggie. … A' right Goo'-by!"

He hung up the receiver, grinned victoriously, and said, "Forty minutes."

But the livery also failed to guarantee its schedule. It was an hour before Kendall buttoned his coat, turned up his collar, and fled through the downpour from the curtained surrey to the haven of the leading—and only—stationer in Iroquois. The stationer was both sympathetic and second-sighted.

"You don't want no light fiction," he declared. "Oh, I c'n tell all right. I c'n tell by your looks. I c'n tell anybody's looks. Half the time I c'n tell what folks want when they don't know. Now you like heavy stuff.… Lamb's Essays from Shakespeare … Here's a book you'd like. It's on the power of the will!" He selected a volume from the shelf of plugs, and spun it across the counter. "You're a drummer," he said. "You need this. Listen! What makes the lion cringe before the trainer? What makes the criminal dodge the cop?"

"An automatic seven-shooter—"

"No! The power of the will! This book teaches you how to be master of yourself—how to get a resistless will—how to concentrate—how to throw off troubles like a duck throws water off its back—how to bend men to your purpose—how to remember everything and anything. The price—" He examined CVX on the inside cover. "Two-fifty, net. Seeing 's it's you, I'll say two dollars, net. Wrap it up with the magazines?"

"Hello!" said Kendall. "Here's a chapter on salesmanship! Ever read this yourself? Or are you an eclectic?"

"I'm a Progressive," said the stationer, cautiously, "and a Methodist, and an Elk."

"It's funny," pondered Kendall, "but I've been selling things all my life, and I never read how to do it. If I buy this, you'll guarantee it, of course?"

"Er … how's that?"

"You'll stand back of the warranty?"

"I act only as agent," said the stationer, quickly. "But—well, seeing 's it's you, I'll say yes. If you don't get your money's worth out of it, bring it back. Anyway, you'll find it deep—and that's what you asked for."

Kendall bought it; bought clean linen at the best—and only—haberdasher's; said "Home, James!" to the ruminating youth who drove the surrey; added, on perceiving the charioteer's blank uncertainty, "Let go their heads!" and went back to the Union House, where he registered, bargained for a room, and weighed its disadvantages against those of the lobby. There was a fireplace in the lobby. Kendall risked all on a single cast, and mentioned a fire.

The clerk, according to his ability, was generous. He caused hickory to be brought, and kindled a cheerful blaze.

"There!" he said. "I been cold all day. Why didn't I think of that before!"

Yes, the clerk was generous. He went away, and left Kendall with the two magazines and the book and the fire.

The magazines were beneath contempt; for although they were literary, they were badly printed, and it hurt Kendall to look at them. So eventually he came to the book; and as he surveyed its smooth sides he wondered dumbly why he had bought it.

At any rate, he tempted the sortes Vergilianæ. He allowed the volume to open where it listed, and a maxim to seep slowly into his innocent conscience.

 

Carry always with you a strong sense of resolution.

 

"It's a chestnut!" said Kendall, disgustedly. "I know I'll sell these people! What's next?"

 

Remember with whom you come in contact. Consider no one as your superior.

 

"Well," said Kendall, reminiscently, "I don't exactly hate myself, anyway!" He tried a third time.

 

Gaze steadily at an object eight or ten feet away. Count fifty. Keep the mind wholly on the thought. Put back of it the mood of a strong will. I will! I am forcing will into the eye!

 

Kendall laughed immoderately. He put the book down and yawned. He picked it up again, and re-read the instructions. He read further:

 

The soul in the eye is power to man. Practise!!!

 

Out of sheer ennui, he practised. He focused on a door-knob, and exerted his resistless will to the utmost.

"Bring me a criminal and a half-portion of lions!" he requested of an imaginary servitor.

He reduced the door-knob to pitiable subjection; and then he quailed the bellows, and waited for the andirons to cringe.

"If this," he said to himself, "is an element of salesmanship, I'd better go home and save money!"

At this juncture the door opened and a man in an expensive raincoat came in. He was a big, healthy, clean-skinned man with twinkling gray eyes—gray eyes which covered Kendall and the fire and the psychology in one volley.

"Well," said the big man, shedding his soaked raincoat to the nearest marble-top and dropping his hat on it, "this is the best-looking place I've seen to-day!" He approached the fire, rubbing his hands. "Is this a private conflagration, or is it an open game?"

"Free to the public on Tuesdays," welcomed Kendall. "Unless I'm mistaken, I saw you in Buffalo last night. Didn't I?"

The man shook his head imperturbably. "I hardly think so."

"No? Weren't you the man—"

"Not in Buffalo," he denied.

Kendall rubbed his eyes. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, very well. Sit in and smoke a cigar, anyway."

"If you don't mind," demurred the stranger, "I'll give you one—I notice you're working on a Union Special."

"Typographical error; should have been Onion," said Kendall. "Thank you.

The big man straddled a splint-bottomed chair close to the fireplace, and took Kendall's psychological treatise from the floor.

"Greetings!" he exclaimed. "Where'd you find this? I thought I was the only man in the world who ever read it."

"I got it at a shop up the line."

"So? You'll enjoy it!" He puffed contentedly. "We need more philosophy, … especially ethics. Mighty few of us have any will power; none at all when it comes to dealing with the other fellow. Everybody ought to believe in the brotherhood of man, and then be his brother's keeper."

"The part I happened to be reading," said Kendall, "seemed to refer to the cowing of wild beasts."

"It's possible to develop anything," declared the stranger—"magnetism, virtue, or a taste for George Eliot. Why not suggestive influence by the eye? I take it you're traveling?"

"Why in thunder is it," protested Kendall, aggrievedly, "that everybody spots a salesman! I'm with the New York Litho."

"Oh, you are!" His voice wasn't altogether so cordial; Kendall reasoned that it was the natural result of the damning revelation. He had encountered that particular brand of exclusiveness before. Stiffly he presented a card.

"I haven't one with me, but my name's Gaylord. I'm with a manufacturing company up here. You weren't calling on us by any chance, were you?"

"Gaylord! Treasurer of the— Why, I came up simply to see you!"

^You did?"

"Yes; I was staying over to-night to see you in the morning. Mrs. Roberts said you were in New York."

"A probable explanation for your not seeing me in Buffalo—but you saw her, did you?"

"I certainly did, and—"

"And she referred you to me?"

"Precisely. I came up in answer to a letter—I suppose it was a form-letter—"

"I don't know about that; I hadn't anything to do with it. All I do is to buy the printing. I know your firm. "

"I brought up some stuff for you to look over—"

"The first thing I want to know is the terms."

"Why, the usual terms—three per cent. ten days, thirty days net."

"No, no," said the treasurer, smiling quickly. "Wake up, young man! Get aboard! I started in the premium business on Canal Street! What we're talking about is some thirty-two-page catalogues, with one eight-page color-form, printed on both sides, about five by eight—half a million of 'em, with tension envelopes, all good, coated stock; tint block running all the walk through the text pages with our trade-mark. You can get up an estimate and then we'll talk terms."

Kendall obligingly got out his samples and a scratch-pad, and together the two men came to an agreement.

"That's different from what I'd expected," said Kendall, thoughtfully. "But the price, delivered to your factory, will be thirteen thousand and a half."

"Eighteen and a half—"

"I said thirteen and a half."

"I heard you. Eighteen and a half—and it's all right."

"Say," said Kendall, apprehensively, "this is no place to talk like that!"

Mr. Gaylord grinned.

"This is the safest place in Iroquois," he said, reassuringly. "Except, of course, around meal-times."

A dull flush spread slowly over Kendall's cheeks. "Remember," he said to himself, "with whom you come in contact!"

"And the—the rake-off—"

"Twenty-five per cent. to you and seventy-five to me; … and, pardon me for suggesting it, but as I said—or should have said—I was born on Nineteenth Street, west of Third Avenue. Your check with the order!"

Kendall looked hard at him.

"It doesn't listen awfully well—"

"You want fifty-fifty, I suppose.… It can't be done. See here, man—who's taking the risk? Take it, or leave it. Figure it this way: if I didn't throw the order to you, you wouldn't make a cent, would you? I'm offering you twelve hundred and fifty dollars velvet. And if it doesn't take you too long to make up your mind, you can catch the last train back to Buffalo to-night."

"But … your president—"

"President!" snorted Mr. Gaylord. "Leave her out of it, please, I'm the buyer."

"But … double-crossing a woman—"

"It isn't her fault she's a woman, is it? And you'll have to run faster than I think you can if you want to catch that train!

"Hang the train!"

"You don't need to camp here with the idea of getting a better split out of me," warned Mr. Gaylord, "because you can't do it; but if we should do any business this next season, there might be a good bit more coming your way. You never can tell."

"It wasn't that.… Frankly, I never made my money that way, Mr. Gaylord. … Naturally, I want your order, but I want it straight—"

"I've told you the only way you get it. You bill us at eighteen five, and I'll look after the readjustment so that your house won't get wise, and—"

"But a woman! It's double-crossing a woman!"

"If," said the treasurer, mildly, "you were thinking of tipping this off to her, let me tell you something. This is only a tank-town, and there isn't much excitement in the streets; but if you let this idea once get to Mrs. Roberts, I'll promise to hand your mentality the worst jolt it ever got. And in the next place, she wouldn't believe you." He looked at his watch. "You've missed your train, anyway. We'll go over the proposition again to-morrow—maybe you'll feel better after you've slept on it." He rose and picked up his raincoat. "I'll see you later, then."

"You certainly will," agreed Kendall.

After the treasurer had gone, he sat gazing stupidly into the remnants of the fire.

"He thinks we need more ethics, does he?" he declaimed fiercely to himself. "And we ought to be our brothers' keepers, ought we? Well—suppose I begin to carry that strong sense of resolution around with me! Double-cross a widow? Not if she's … pretty!"

And then he read doggedly the rules for becoming a master of men; and he quitted them only when the gong rang for the evening meal and the soup hush settled over the Union House.

 

Mrs. Roberts looked even less business-like than she had the day before.

"I came in," said Kendall, resolutely, "to make sure that we understand each other. And I certainly don't mean to be impertinent, but I wish you'd answer a few questions. Will you?"

Categorically she told him of the past, present, and future; and when she had finished, Kendall moistened his lips and called her treasurer an unpleasant name. In the midst of his elucidation she paled and began to slide gently out of her chair. Without much effort he helped her to the chintz-covered sofa; and then he hurried out to the adjoining workroom, selected a gray-haired and capable-looking forewoman, and told her to come in and be capable. The forewoman glanced once at the figure of her employer, calmly opened a compartment of the sewing-table, produced a bottle of lavender salts, and held it under the president's nose.

"Open the window," she ordered, "and tell those girls I'll fire every one who isn't at her desk inside of ten seconds." Kendall obeyed briskly.

The lavender salts soon revived the president, and she sat up and talked of lithographed cartons and trade organizations until the forewoman felt obliged to depart.

"Mr. Kendall," she said, "we can make short work of this; … there are only two alternatives. What can you prove:

"Prove?" he repeated. "I can't prove anything. Only—" He thrust his hand in his pocket and touched the letter which the young man in Buffalo had given him to mail. "Well," he said, "the boy who gave me this is the only one in the world who saw us there at the same time. If it's vitally important, I suppose we could look him up. He said his name was Huntington—"

"Huntington!"

"Bobby Huntington—yes."

He thought she was about to faint again, but she didn't. After a moment she reached out, took the letter, and deliberately slit the envelope with a hair-pin. She read a few lines, and looked up.

"He gave you this in Buffalo?"

"Night before last," said Kendall, wonderingly. "Does it matter?"

"Only that Bobby Huntington is my nephew, … and I thought he was in New York, too, … opening our office there." She leaned back and gripped the arms of her chair tightly.

"Dear lady," said Kendall, "I had to tell you. I'm sorry—"

The president tried to laugh.

"Do you know," she managed to say, "perhaps I'm lucky, after all. I've just lost the last of my illusions … and I'm forty-one years old! I guess it's time for me to retire."

"I lost mine ten years earlier. … Is there anything on earth I can do for you?

"This much. Mr. Gaylord hasn't come in yet this morning. Would it be a source of satisfaction to you to stop at his house—you pass it on the way to town—and tell him that you've told me?" She sighed dispiritedly. "Would you care to do that?"

"Why don't you send for him, and let me be here when he comes?"

"No, no," demurred the president. "You forget, Mr. Kendall; he was a friend of the doctor's. But if you'll be where I can call you if I need you—"

"I'll be at the hotel until the afternoon train, anyway—"

"Wait!" she exclaimed. "You haven't taken the order with you."

"My dear lady—"

"No," she insisted. "It belongs to you by rights. "I'll sign it myself." She telephoned for a stenographer and dictated a brief letter in accordance with the specifications which Gaylord had approved and Kendall had shown her.

"There," she said, when the epistle was ready. "There is the smallest reward I can give to—to a very gallant gentleman." She signed it and gave it to him.

"And that," said Kendall, inspecting it without joy, "is very gratifying." He suddenly remembered the two increases in price he had made to balance his personal inconvenience. "Of course," he added, "there's ten per cent. off for cash!"

"Ten per cent.!" she stammered.

"That," said Kendall, "is the least consideration I can give to a very brave woman. And now, will you be kind enough to describe Mr. Gaylord's house to me?"

 

The house was easier to find than to miss. It was a hideous little clapboard house, full in the blazing sun, which had blistered great patches of paint from its battered sides. There was a graveled walk leading to the doorway, but the recent rains had escorted the greater part of the gravel to the adjacent grass.

Kendall was admitted by a slatternly Amazon who left him standing in the hall while she held converse with the master. Later, with a gesture of pronounced antipathy, she bade him enter the library. Her manner inferred that she dared him.

Gaylord was seated at a roll-top desk in one corner of a room so bare that it chilled his visitor almost before he had crossed the threshold. The treasurer had in front of him a pile of papers and documents arranged in orderly piles; and on the flanking blotter were keys and a check-book.

"Hello!" he said. "I thought you'd be along about this time.… Didn't know I was a mind-reader, did you? Have a seat and a cigar."

"Thank you, no," said Kendall. "I'm a little particular this morning. I came in to tell you that I've seen Mrs. Roberts.

"Indeed! What did you tell her?"

Kendall took a step forward. His face was whiter than usual, and his eyes blazed in cold anger.

"You know what I told her!"

"My dear fellow, … I've read the same book! You don't need to glare at me like that. Sit down and be reasonable."

"You'll excuse me. Look here! I came up to this town to get an order, and I've got it! Now I'm going to get you!"

"Don't be absurd. It may be I have something to say—"

"Yes—and I'd like to hear you say it! I'd like to hear you say it to the woman you— Oh, what's the use? Canada's in the other direction. Anyway, she knows! Get that, do you? She knows! She knows you weren't in New York. She knows you were in Buffalo, padding your expense accounts. She knows the deal you tried to put over with me. She knows you for the crook you've been for God knows how long—"

"Kendall," said the treasurer, sorrowfully, "what a merry little world this is!" He decapitated a cigar and lighted it. "There's not much to be gained by subterfuge now, is there? I'm a grafter, you say. Very well. There's the graft!" He indicated the papers and the documents and the check-book. "The Iroquois Biscuit Company never had a chance, Kendall. It never had one chance in a million. And there was a woman at the head of it— Do you realize what that means? Lots of heart, dear fellow, and no head. And the biscuit—they're something fierce. They're the vilest crackers in the universe. But she wanted to carry out the doctor's dream. And I had to sit by and watch her throw her money away. A very pretty little situation, Kendall. Most amusing! And her last bit was going in one wallop into an advertising campaign that would have been the most terrific frost in all the history of advertising. She thought it would turn the tide, but it wouldn't. It would have left her stranded, with a decrepit shack of a plant, good-will worth nothing, a formula worth less than nothing—" He stopped, blew a great cloud of smoke at the ceiling, and peered at Kendall through the haze. "That's all."

"And you—you greased the tracks! And you have the nerve to sit there and tell me—"

"No argument, my dear chap, no discussion. Why, she wanted to open a branch office in New York! Think of it! Bobby Huntington in charge! Could I stand for that? Of course I couldn't! I sent Bobby over to Buffalo to stay until we could work out a scheme. We gave letters to people to mail as though we were en route—one at Syracuse, one at Albany, one to New York—"

"That one he gave to me. And I gave it to Mrs. Roberts this morning."

"Oh, I'm sorry. That's too bad. I hoped I could keep Bobby out of it. The night you saw him he'd finished a week in a second-rate boarding-house, and it was too stiff for him. We're partners in iniquity, Kendall. I've lived in this bungalow, and Bobby's done a number of things to save money—just waiting for the crash—waiting for the crash."

"And the crash," said Kendall, "has arrived."

"Exactly. You couldn't reason with her—she went ahead in a straight line. I had to do as she said. And so … it's a long time since a contract went out of our office without something sticking to my fingers."

"As a crook you're interesting—"

"Yes, I am—I'll admit it. But what else was there to do? I'm telling you this because I want to put myself square with you—"

"Square!"

"Certainly. I did my darnedest, Kendall, to save the ship, but it couldn't be done. As soon as I saw it couldn't, I started out to save what I could out of the wreck. I imagine we'll close down any minute now. Strictly between ourselves, when they come to an audit they'll find that the president's last fifty thousand will just about balance the books. And that leaves only what I've got here—not a great deal, but still … enough to provide a little income until I can start in something else. And, I repeat, it was the only way."

"And do you imagine I'm going to let you get away with that?" demanded Kendall, his voice shaking.

"Get away! What do you think you're talking about?"

"Well, what do you think you are going to do?"

The treasurer flushed.

"Not that it's any of your blamed business, Kendall, … but you're a pretty good scout. … I had a hunch last night you'd be the man to queer the whole game.… I'm going to marry her!"

Kendall fell back in horror and amazement.

"You! Why, you miserable hypocrite!—"

"Wake up, wake up!" said the treasurer, mildly. "Haven't you any intelligence? I've been telling you how I've saved forty thousand dollars for her—in spite of herself! It isn't mine, you idiot!"

"You—you're taking it back to her—"

"If a hundred salesmen still think I'm a thief, Kendall, you and I and the president won't.… By the way, nothing else under the sun could have stopped that fool advertising. What are you going to do about that order?"

Kendall produced it, scrutinized the figures, and suddenly tore the sheet into a dozen pieces.

"A man who'll throw away a perfectly good contract for more than thirteen thousand dollars doesn't need any books on will power!" said the treasurer, quizzically. "Thanks, old fellow!"

"Will power! And you've let every man you do business with think you're a common grafter!" He coughed aside. "I'm not going to apologize—it's too big for that."

The door-bell rang impatiently, and Gaylord leaped to his feet.

"Do me a favor?" he asked, excitedly. "I'd like to have you talk to the president again before you go. You wait here about half an hour—I'll telephone you when to come, and where." Here the Amazon entered with a small parcel. "You see," said the treasurer, as he jammed his hat over his eyes, "I figured this all out last night—this is a ring from the jeweler's. Instead of apologizing, you can come along and be a witness—maybe!"

 

In going from the Union House to the station, Kendall was suddenly prompted to stop at the book-store, where he removed the philosophical treatise from his bag and laid it on the counter.

"I want to return this," he said, "and I'd like my money back."

"I'm afraid I can't do it."

"You said you would."

"Yes, but I've had to pay some bills, and I 'ain't got much cash left."

"But I've bought some silverware, and I've got to get to Buffalo. I'll be all right when I get there."

"I'm sorry.

Kendall backed him into a corner.

"Look here," he said. "That was a book on will power. It's no good. It's rotten! You said you'd take it back if it wasn't satisfactory, … and it isn't. You come up with the money, or there'll be trouble. It isn't worth a nickel. Hand out that two dollars."

His manner, his bulk, and, above all, his determined and unwavering eyes, were conclusive evidence. The stationer wilted visibly, and reached for the cash-drawer.

"Well," he protested, mournfully, "I will if you say so, … but it seems to me you must have got something out of it."