Читать книгу The Wall Street Girl - Bartlett Frederick Orin - Страница 5

When Don came back to the office he found Miss Winthrop again at her typewriter, but she did not even glance up as he took his former place at Powers’s desk. If this was not particularly flattering, it at least gave him the privilege of watching her. But it was rather curious that he found in this enough to hold his attention for half an hour. It is doubtful whether he could have watched Frances herself for so long a time without being bored.

It was the touch of seriousness about the girl’s eyes and mouth that now set him to wondering–a seriousness that he had sometimes noted in the faces of men who had seen much of life.

Life–that was the keynote. He felt that she had been in touch with life, and had got the better of it: that there had been drama in her past, born of contact with men and women. She had been dealing with such problems as securing food–and his experience of the last twenty-four hours had hinted at how dramatic that may be; with securing lodgings for the night; with the problem of earning not more money but enough money to keep her alive. All this had left its mark, not in ugliness, but in a certain seriousness that made him keen to know about her. Here was a girl who was not especially concerned with operas, with books, with the drama, but with the stuff of which those things are made.

Miss Winthrop removed from her typewriter the final page of the long letter she had finished and rapidly went over it for errors. She found none. But, as she gathered her papers together before taking them into the private office of Mr. Farnsworth, she spoke. She spoke without even then glancing at Don–as if voicing a thought to herself.

“Believe me,” she said, “they are not going to pay you for sitting there and watching me.”

Don felt the color spring to his cheeks.

“I beg your pardon,” he apologized.

“It doesn’t bother me any,” she continued, as she rose. “Only there isn’t any money for the firm in that sort of thing.”

“But there doesn’t seem to be anything around here for me to do.”

“Then make something,” she concluded, as she moved away.

Blake, to whom he had been introduced, was sitting at his desk reading an early edition of an evening paper. Spurred on by her admonition, he strolled over there. Blake glanced up with a nod.

“How you making it?” he inquired.

“There doesn’t seem to be much for me to do,” said Don. “Can you suggest anything?”

“Farnsworth will dig up enough for you later on. I wouldn’t worry about that.”

“But I don’t know anything about the game.”

“You’ll pick it up. Did I understand Farnsworth to say you were Harvard?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Princeton. Say, what sort of a football team have you this year?”

Don knew football. He had played right end on the second team. He also knew Princeton, and if the information he gave Blake about the team ever went back to New Jersey it did not do the coaching staff there any good. However, it furnished a subject for a pleasant half hour’s conversation. Then Blake went out, and Don returned to his former place back of Powers’s desk.

“I’ll bet you didn’t get much out of him,” observed Miss Winthrop, without interrupting the click of her machine.

“He seems rather a decent sort,” answered Don.

“Perhaps he is,” she returned.

“He’s a Princeton man,” Don informed her.

“He’s Percy A. Blake,” she declared–as if that were a fact of considerably more importance.

He waited to see if she was ready to volunteer any further information, but apparently she considered this sufficient.

At that point Farnsworth came out and took a look about the office. His eyes fell upon Don, and he crossed the room.

He handed Don a package.

“I wish you would deliver these to Mr. Hayden, of Hayden & Wigglesworth,” he requested.

Farnsworth returned to his office, leaving Don staring helplessly at the package in his hands.

“For Heaven’s sake, get busy!” exclaimed Miss Winthrop.

“But where can I find Mr. Hayden?” inquired Don.

“Get out of the office and look up the firm in a directory,” she returned sharply. “But hustle out of here just as if you did know.”

Don seized his hat and obeyed. He found himself on the street, quite as ignorant of where to find a directory as he was of where to find Mr. Hayden, of Hayden & Wigglesworth. But in rounding a corner–still at full speed–he ran into a messenger boy.

“Take me to the office of Hayden & Wigglesworth and there’s a quarter in it for you,” he offered.

“I’m on,” nodded the boy.

The office was less than a five minutes’ walk away. In another two minutes Don had left his package with Mr. Hayden’s clerk and was back again in his own office.

“Snappy work,” Miss Winthrop complimented him. “The closing prices must be out by now. You’d better look them over.”

“Closing prices of what?” he inquired.

“The market, of course. Ask Eddie–the boy at the ticker. He’ll give you a sheet.”

So Don went over and asked Eddie, and was handed a list of closing quotations–which, for all he was concerned, might have been football signals. However, he sat down and looked them over, and continued to look them over until Farnsworth passed him on his way home.

“You may as well go now,” Farnsworth said. “You’ll be here at nine to-morrow?”

“Nine to-morrow,” nodded Don.

He returned to Miss Winthrop’s desk.

“He says I may go now,” he reported.

“Then I’d go,” she advised.

“But I–I want to thank you.”

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t!” she exploded. “I’m busy.”

“Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

He took the Subway back to the Grand Central, and walked from there to the club. Here he found a message from Frances:–

Dad sent up a box for the theater to-night. Will you come to dinner and go with us?

When Don, after dressing, left his house for the Stuyvesants’ that evening, it was with a curious sense of self-importance. He now had the privilege of announcing to his friends that he was in business in New York–in the banking business–with Carter, Rand & Seagraves, as a matter of fact. He walked with a freer stride and swung his stick with a jauntier air than he had yesterday.

He was full of this when, a few minutes before dinner, Frances swept down the stairs.

“I’m glad you could come, Don,” she said. “But where in the world have you been all day?”

“Downtown,” he answered. “I’m with Carter, Rand & Seagraves now.”

He made the announcement with considerable pride.

“Poor Don!” she murmured. “But, if you’re going to do that sort of thing, I suppose you might as well be with them as any one. I wonder if that Seagraves is Dolly Seagraves’s father.”

For a second he was disappointed–he had expected more enthusiasm from her.

“I haven’t met the families of the firm yet,” he answered.

“I thought you knew Dolly. I’ll ask her up for my next afternoon, to meet you.”

“But I can’t come in the afternoon, Frances.”

“How stupid! You’re to be downtown all day?”

“From nine to three or later.”

“I’m not sure I’m going to like that.”

“Then you’ll have to speak to Farnsworth,” he laughed.

“Farnsworth?”

“He’s the manager.”

“I imagine he’s very disagreeable. Oh, Don, please hurry and make your fortune and have it over with!”

“You ought to give me more than one day, anyhow.”

“I’ll give you till June,” she smiled. “I really got sort of homesick for you to-day, Don.”

“Honest?”

“Honest, Don. I’ve no business to tell you such a secret, but it’s true.”

“I’m glad you told me,” he answered soberly. “What have you been doing all day?”

“I had a stupid morning at the tailor’s, and a stupid bridge in the afternoon at the Martins’. Oh, I lost a disgraceful lot of money.”

“How much?” he inquired.

She shook her head. “I won’t tell; but that’s why I told Dad he must take me to see something cheerful this evening.”

“Tough luck,” he sympathized.

They went in to dinner. Afterward the Stuyvesant car took them all to a vaudeville house, and there, from the rear of a box, Don watched with indifferent interest the usual vaudeville turns. To tell the truth, he would have been better satisfied to have sat at the piano at home and had Frances sing to him. There were many things he had wished to talk over with her. He had not told her about the other men he had met, his adventure on his first business assignment, his search for a place to lunch, or–Miss Winthrop. Until that moment he had not thought of her himself.

A singing team made their appearance and began to sing sentimental ballads concerned with apple blossoms in Normandy. Don’s thoughts went back, strangely enough, to the white-tiled restaurant in the alley. He smiled as he contrived a possible title for a popular song of this same nature. “The White-Tiled Restaurant in the Alley” it might read, and it might have something to do with “Sally.” Perhaps Miss Winthrop’s first name was Sally–it fitted her well enough. She had been funny about that chocolate éclair. And she had lent him two dollars. Unusual incident, that! He wondered where she was to-night–where she went after she left the office at night. Perhaps she was here. He leaned forward to look at the faces of people in the audience. Then the singing stopped, and a group of Japanese acrobats occupied the stage.

Frances turned, suppressing a yawn.

“I suppose one of them will hang by his teeth in a minute,” she observed. “I wish he wouldn’t. It makes me ache.”

“It is always possible to leave,” he suggested.

“But Mother so enjoys the pictures.”

“Then, by all means, let’s stay.”

“They always put them at the end. Oh, dear me, I don’t think I shall ever come again.”

“I enjoyed the singing,” he confessed.

“Oh, Don, it was horrible!”

“Still, that song about the restaurant in the alley–”

“The what?” she exclaimed.

“Wasn’t it that or was it apple blossoms? Anyhow, it was good.”

“Of course there’s no great difference between restaurants in alleys and apple blossoms in Normandy!” she commented.

“Not so much as you’d think,” he smiled.

It was eleven before they were back at the house. Then Stuyvesant wanted a rarebit and Frances made it, so that it was after one before Don reached his own home.

Not until Nora, in obedience to a note he had left downstairs for her, called him at seven-thirty the next morning did Don realize he had kept rather late hours for a business man. Bit by bit, the events of yesterday came back to him; and in the midst of it, quite the central figure, stood Miss Winthrop. It was as if she were warning him not to be late. He jumped from bed.

But, even at that, it was a quarter-past eight before he came downstairs. Nora was anxiously waiting for him.

“You did not order breakfast, sir,” she reminded him.

“Why, that’s so,” he admitted.

“Shall I prepare it for you now?”

“Never mind. I haven’t time to wait, anyway. You see, I must be downtown at nine. I’m in business, Nora.”

“Yes, sir; but you should eat your breakfast, sir.”

He shook his head. “I think I’ll try going without breakfast this week. Besides, I didn’t send up any provisions.”

Nora appeared uneasy. She did not wish to be bold, and yet she did not wish her late master’s son to go downtown hungry.

“An egg and a bit of toast, sir? I’m sure the cook could spare that.”

“Out of her own breakfast?”

“I–I beg your pardon, sir,” stammered Nora; “but it’s all part of the house, isn’t it?”

“No,” he answered firmly. “We must play the game fair, Nora.”

“And dinner, sir?”

“Dinner? Let’s not worry about that as early in the morning as this.”

He started to leave, but at the door turned again.

“If you should want me during the day, you’ll find me at my office with Carter, Rand & Seagraves. Better write that down.”

“I will, sir.”

“Good-day, Nora.”

Don took the Subway this morning, in company with several hundred thousand others for whom this was as much a routine part of their daily lives as the putting on of a hat. He had seen all these people coming and going often enough before, but never before had he felt himself as coming and going with them. Now he was one of them. He did not resent it. In fact, he felt a certain excitement about it. But it was new–almost foreign.

It was with some difficulty that he found his way from the station to his office. This so delayed him that he was twenty minutes late. Miss Winthrop, who was hard at work when he entered, paused a second to glance at the watch pinned to her dress.

“I’m only twenty minutes late,” he apologized to her.

“A good many things can happen around Wall Street in twenty minutes,” she answered.

“I guess I’ll have to leave the house a little earlier.”

“I’d do something to get here on time,” she advised. “Out late last night?”

“Not very. I was in bed a little after one.”

“I thought so.”

“Why?”

“You look it.”

She brought the conversation to an abrupt end by resuming her work.

He wanted to ask her in just what way he looked it. He felt a bit hollow; but that was because he hadn’t breakfasted. His eyes, too, were still a little heavy; but that was the result, not of getting to bed late, but of getting up too early.

She, on the other hand, appeared fresher than she had yesterday at noon. Her eyes were brighter and there was more color in her cheeks. Don had never seen much of women in the forenoon. As far as he was concerned, Frances did not exist before luncheon. But what experience he had led him to believe that Miss Winthrop was an exception–that most women continued to freshen toward night and were at their best at dinner-time.

“Mr. Pendleton.” It was Eddie. “Mr. Farnsworth wants to see you in his office.”

Farnsworth handed Don a collection of circulars describing some of the securities the firm was offering.

“Better familiarize yourself with these,” he said briefly. “If there is anything in them you don’t understand, ask one of the other men.”

That was all. In less than three minutes Don was back again at Powers’s desk. He glanced through one of the circulars, which had to do with a certain electric company offering gold bonds at a price to net four and a half. He read it through once and then read it through again. It contained a great many figures–figures running into the millions, whose effect was to make twenty-five dollars a week shrink into insignificance. On the whole, it was decidedly depressing reading–the more so because he did not understand it.

He wondered what Miss Winthrop did when she was tired, where she lived and how she lived, if she played bridge, if she spent her summers abroad, who her parents were, whether she was eighteen or twenty-two or – three, and if she sang. All of which had nothing to do with the affairs of the company that wished to dispose of its gold bonds at a price to net four and a half.

At twelve Miss Winthrop rose from her machine and sought her hat in the rear of the office. At twelve-five she came back, passed him as if he had been an empty chair, and went out the door. At twelve-ten he followed. He made his way at once to the restaurant in the alley. She was not in the chair she had occupied yesterday, but farther back. Happily, the chair next to her was empty.

“Will you hold this for me?” he asked.

“Better drop your hat in it,” she suggested rather coldly.

He obeyed the suggestion, and a minute later returned with a cup of coffee and an egg sandwich. She was gazing indifferently across the room as he sat down, but he called her attention to his lunch.

“You see, I got one of these things to-day.”

“So?”

“Do you eat it with a fork or pick it up in your fingers?” he asked.

She turned involuntarily to see if he was serious. She could not tell, but it was a fact he looked perplexed.

“Oh, pick it up in your fingers,” she exclaimed. “But look here; are you coming here every day?”

“Sure,” he nodded. “Why not?”

“Because, if you are, I’m going to find another place.”

“You–what?” he gasped.

“I’m going to find another place.”

The sandwich was halfway to his lips. He put it down again.

“What have I done?” he demanded.

She was avoiding his eyes.

“Oh, it isn’t you,” she answered. “But if the office ever found out–”

“Well,” he insisted.

“It would make a lot of talk, that’s all,” she concluded quickly. “I can’t afford it.”

“Whom would they talk about?”

“Oh, they wouldn’t talk about you–that’s sure.”

“They would talk about you?”

“They certainly would.”

“What would they say?”

“You think it over,” she replied. “The thing you want to remember is that I’m only a stenographer there, and you–well, if you make good you’ll be a member of the firm some day.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with where you eat or where I eat.”

“It hasn’t, as long as we don’t eat at the same place. Can’t you see that?”

She raised her eyes and met his.

“I see now,” he answered soberly. “They’ll think I’m getting fresh with you?”

“They’ll think I’m letting you get fresh,” she answered, lowering her eyes.

“But you don’t think that yourself?”

“I don’t know,” she answered slowly. “I used to think I could tell; but now–oh, I don’t know!”

“But good Heavens! you’ve been a regular little trump to me. You’ve even lent me the money to buy my lunches with. Do you think any man could be so low down–”

“Those things aren’t fit to eat when they’re cold,” she warned him.

He shoved his plate aside and leaned toward her. “Do you think–”

“No, no, no!” she exclaimed. “Only, it isn’t what I think that matters.”

“That’s the only thing in this case that does matter,” he returned.

“You wait until you know Blake,” she answered.

“Of course, if any one is to quit here, it is I,” he said.

“You’d better stay where you are,” she answered. “I know a lot of other places just like this.”

“Well, I can find them, can’t I?”

She laughed–a contagious little laugh.

“I’m not so sure,” she replied.

“You don’t think much of my ability, do you?” he returned, somewhat nettled.

She lifted her eyes at that.

“If you want to know the truth,” she said, “I do. And I’ve seen a lot of ’em come and go.”

He reacted curiously to this unexpected praise. His color heightened and unconsciously he squared his shoulders.

“Thanks,” he said. “Then you ought to trust me to be able to find another lunch-place. Besides, you forget I found this myself. Are you going to have an éclair to-day?”

She nodded and started to rise.

“Sit still; I’ll get it for you.”

Before she could protest he was halfway to the counter. She sat back in her chair with an expression that was half-frown and half-smile.

When he came back she slipped a nickel upon the arm of his chair.

“What’s this for?” he demanded.

“For the éclair, of course.”

“You–you needn’t have done that.”

“I’ll pay my own way, thank you,” she answered, her face hardening a little.

“Now you’re offended again?”

“No; only–oh, can’t you see we–I must find another place?”

“No, I don’t,” he answered.

“Then that proves it,” she replied. “And now I’m going back to the office.”

He rose at once to go with her.

“Please to sit right where you are for five minutes,” she begged.

He sat down again and watched her as she hurried out the door. The moment she disappeared the place seemed curiously empty–curiously empty and inane. He stared at the white-tiled walls, at the heaps of pastry upon the marble counter, prepared as for wholesale. Yet, as long as she sat here with him, he had noticed none of those details. For all he was conscious of his surroundings, they might have been lunching together in that subdued, pink-tinted room where he so often took Frances.

He started as he thought of her. Then he smiled contentedly. He must have Frances to lunch with him in the pink-tinted dining-room next Saturday.