Читать книгу Bread - Charles G. Norris - Страница 14

Graduates of the Gerard Commercial School ordinarily did not have to wait long for a job. The demand for stenographers was usually in excess of the supply. Little Miss Ingram, down at the school, who had in hand the matter of finding positions for Gerard graduates, was interested in obtaining the best that was available for Miss Sturgis who had made such an excellent record, and Jeannette was thrilled one morning at receiving a note asking her to report at the school without delay if she wished employment.

Miss Ingram handed her an address on Fourth Avenue.

“It’s a publishing house. They publish subscription books, I think,—something of that sort. I don’t urge you to take it,—something better may come along,—but you can look them over and see how you think you’d like it. They’ll pay fifteen.”

“Fifteen a week?” Jeanette raised delighted eyes. “Oh, Miss Ingram, do you think I can please them? Do you think they’ll give me a chance?”

Miss Ingram smiled and squeezed Jeannette’s arm reassuringly.

“Of course, my dear, and they’ll be delighted with you. You’re a great deal better equipped than most of our girls.”

The Soulé Publishing Company occupied a spacious floor of a tall building on Fourth Avenue. Jeannette was deafened by the clatter of typewriters as she stepped out of the elevator.

The loft was filled with long lines of girls seated at typewriting machines and at great broad-topped tables piled high with folded circulars. Figures, silhouetted against the distant windows, moved to and fro between the aisles. It was a turmoil of noise and confusion.

As she stood before the low wooden railing that separated her from it all, trying to adjust her eyes to the kaleidoscopic effect of movement and light, a pert young voice addressed her:

“Who did chou want t’ see, ple-ease?”

A little Jewess of some fourteen or fifteen years with an elaborate coiffure surmounting her peaked pale face was eyeing her inquiringly.

“I called to see about—about a position as stenographer.”

Jeannette’s voice all but failed her; the words fogged in her throat.

“Typist or regular steno?”

“Stenographer, I think; shorthand and transcription,—wasn’t that what was wanted?”

“See Miss Gibson; first desk over there, end of third aisle.” The little girl swung back a gate in the railing, screwed up the corners of her mouth, tucked a stray hair into place at the nape of her neck, and with an assumed expression of elaborate boredom waited for Jeannette to pass through.

It took courage to invade that region of bustle and clamor. Jeannette advanced with faltering step, felt the waters close over her head, and herself engulfed in the whirling tide. Once of it, it did not seem so terrifying. Already her ears were becoming attuned to the rat-ti-tat-tating that hummed in a roar about her, and her eyes accustomed to the flying fingers, the flashing paper, the bobbing heads, and hurrying figures.

Miss Gibson was a placid, gray-haired woman, large-busted and severely dressed in an immaculate shirtwaist that was tucked trimly into a snug belt about her firm, round person.

She smiled perfunctorily at the girl as she indicated the chair beside her desk. Jeannette felt her eyes swiftly taking inventory of her. Her interrogations were of the briefest. She made a note of Jeannette’s age, name and address, and schooling. She then launched into a description of the work.

The Soulé Publishing Company sold a great many books by subscription: Secret Memoirs, The Favorites of Great Kings, A Compendium of Mortal Knowledge. Their most recent publication was a twenty-five volume work entitled A Universal History of the World. This set of books was supposed to contain a complete historical record of events from the beginning of time, and was composed of excerpts from the writings of great historians, all deftly welded together to make a comprehensive narrative. A tremendous advertising campaign was in progress; all magazines carried full-page advertisements, and a coupon clipped from a corner of them brought a sample volume by mail for inspection. When these volumes were returned, they were accompanied by an order or a letter giving the reason why none was enclosed. To the latter, a personal reply was immediately written by Mr. Beardsley,—Miss Gibson indicated a young man seated by a window some few desks away. He dictated to a corps of stenographers, and followed up his first letters with others, each containing an argument in favor of the books.

Miss Gibson enunciated this information with a glibness that suggested many previous recitations. When she had finished, with disconcerting abruptness, she asked Jeannette if she thought she could do the work. The girl, taken aback, could only stare blankly; she had no idea whether she could do it or not; she shook her head aimlessly. Miss Gibson frowned.

“Well,—we’ll see what you can do,” she declared. “Miss Rosen,” she called, and as a young Jewess came toward them, she directed: “Take Miss—Miss”—she glanced at her notes,—“Sturgis to the cloak room, and bring her back here.”

Jeannette’s mind was a confused jumble. “They won’t kill me,—they won’t eat me,” she found herself thinking.

Presently she stood before Miss Gibson once more. The woman glanced at her, and rose.

“Come this way.” They walked toward the young man she had previously indicated.

“Mr. Beardsley, try this girl out. She comes from the Gerard School, but she’s had no practical experience.”

Jeannette looked into a pleasant boy’s face. He had an even row of glittering white teeth, a small, quaint mouth that stretched tightly across them when he smiled, blue eyes, and rather unruly stuck-up hair.

She wanted to please him—she could please him—he seemed nice.

“Miss—Miss—I beg pardon,—Miss Gibson did not mention the name.”

“Sturgis.”

“There’s a vacant table over there. You can have a Remington or an Underwood—anything you are accustomed to; we have all styles.... Miss Flannigan, take charge of Miss Sturgis, will you?”

A big-boned Irish girl came toward him. She was a slovenly type but apparently disposed to be friendly.

“I’ll lend you a note-book and pencils till you can draw your own from the stock clerk. You have to make out a requisition for everything you want, here. You’ll find paper in that drawer, and that’s a Remington if you use one.”

Jeannette slipped into the straight-back chair and settled with a sense of relief before the flimsy little table on which the typewriter stood. She was eager for a moment’s inconspicuousness.

“This is the kind of stuff he gives you.”

Miss Flannigan leaned over from behind and offered her several yellow sheets of typewriting.

Jeannette took them with a murmured thanks, and began to read.

“... deferred payment plan. Five dollars will immediately secure this handsome twenty-five volume set.... On the first of May, the price of these books, as advertised, must advance, but by subscribing now....”

She wet her dry lips and glanced at another page.

“The authenticity of these sources of historical information cannot be doubted.... Eliminating the traditions which can hardly be accepted as dependable chronicles, we turn to the Egyptian records which are still extant in graven symbols.”

She couldn’t do it! It was harder than anything she had ever had in practice! She saw failure confronting her. The sting of tears pricked her eyes, and she pressed her lips tightly together.

Blindly she picked up a stiff bristle brush and began to clean the type of her machine. She slipped in a sheet of paper, and, to distract herself, rattled off briskly some of her school exercises. Those other girls could do it! She saw them glancing at their notes, and busily clicking at their machines. They did not seem to be having difficulty. Miss Flannigan,—that raw-boned Irish girl with no breeding, no education, no brains!—how was it that she managed it?

She frowned savagely and her fingers flew.

“Miss Sturgis.”

Young Mr. Beardsley was smiling at her invitingly. She rose, gathering up her pencils and note-book.

“Sit down, Miss Sturgis. This work may seem a little difficult to you at first but you’ll soon get on to it. Most of these letters are very much alike. There’s no particular accuracy required. The idea is to get in closer touch with these people who have written in or inquired about the books, and we write them personal letters for the effect the direct message....”

He went on explaining, amiably, reassuringly. Jeannette thawed under his pleasant manner; confidence came surging back. She made up her mind she liked this young man; he was considerate, he was kind, he was a gentleman.

“The idea, of course, is always to have your letters intelligible. If you don’t understand what you have written, the person to whom it is addressed, won’t either. I don’t care whether you get my actual words or not. You’re always at liberty to phrase a sentence any way you choose as long as it makes sense.... Now let’s see; we’ll try one. Frank Curry, R.F.D. 1, Topeka, Kansas.... I’ll go slow at first, but if I forget and get going too rapidly, don’t hesitate to stop me.”

Jeannette, with her note-book balanced on her knee, bent to her work. Beardsley spoke slowly and distinctly. After the first moments of agonizing despair, she began to catch her breath and concentrate on the formation of her notes. More than once she was tempted to write a word out long-hand; she hesitated over “historical,” “consummation,” “inaccurate.” She had been told at school never to permit herself to do this. Better to fail at first, they had said, than to grow to depend on slipshod ways.

The ordeal lasted half-an-hour.

“Suppose you try that much, Miss Sturgis, and see how you get along.”

She rose and gathered up the bundle of letters. Beardsley gave her a friendly, encouraging smile as she turned away.

“How pleasant and kind everyone is!” Jeannette thought as she made her way back to her little table.

But her heart died within her as she began to decipher her notes. Again and again they seemed utterly meaningless,—a whole page of them when the curlicues, hooks and dashes looked to her like so many aimless pencil marks. She frowned and bent over her book despairingly, squeezing hard the fingers of her clasped hands together. What had he said! How had he begun that paragraph? ... Oh, she hadn’t had enough training yet, not enough experience! She couldn’t do it! She’d have to go to him and tell him she couldn’t do the work! And he had been so kind to her! And she would have to tell capable, friendly Miss Gibson that a month or two more in school perhaps would be wiser before she could attempt to do the work of a regular stenographer! And there were her mother and sister, too! She would have to confess to them as well that she had failed! The thought strangled her. Tears brimmed her eyes.

“Perhaps you’re in trouble? Can I help?” A gentle voice from across the narrow aisle addressed her. Jeannette through blurred vision saw a round, white face with kindly sympathetic eyes looking at her.

“What system do you use? The Munson? ... That’s good. Let me see your notes. Just read as far as you can; his letters are so much alike, I think I can help you.”

Jeannette winked away the wetness in her eyes, and read what she was able.

“Oh, yes, I know,” interrupted this new friend; “it goes this way.” She flashed a paper into her machine and clicked out with twinkling fingers a dozen lines.

“See if that isn’t it,” said the girl handing her the paper.

Jeannette read the typewritten lines and referred to her notes.

“Yes, it’s just the same.” Her eyes shone. “I’m so much obliged.”

“It seemed to me awfully hard at first. I thought I never could do it.”

“Did you?” Jeannette smiled gratefully.

“Oh, yes; we all had an awful time. He uses such outlandish words.”