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JOE PADDOCK sat in the little office of his grocery store. The office was a tiny box-stall-like arrangement separated from the store proper by partitions of varnished Georgia pine and window glass. The woodwork was very shiny; the glass not too clean. The groceryman was seated in a golden oak chair at a golden oak desk. The top of the desk was protected by a large square of gray blotting paper stamped with the large black-lettered advertisement of an insurance company.

It was half past one; a slack hour in the grocery business. On the insurance company’s advertisement over which the groceryman’s head was bent industriously were neatly arranged stacks of silver dollars, quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies, a pile of paper money and another of checks. The groceryman was making up the cash to go to the bank. Evidently the morning trade had been good. Writing in the total on the deposit slip Joe dumped the coins and stuffed the bills and checks into a canvas sack and pushed back his chair. Presently he would walk down the street two blocks to the First National Bank on the corner of State and Washington.

In his general appearance, Joe Paddock was comfortable. His age was the comfortable age of, say forty-five. He was neither large and imposing nor small and insignificant—just average, with an average face of ordinary kindly intelligence. In short, the groceryman’s countenance would have reminded one of those composite photographs which one sees in textbooks or magazine articles on physiognomy. But the groceryman’s face, at the completion of his task, which by all the rules of the game should have been a most satisfying task, did not express satisfaction. With his well kept, well clothed body resting comfortably in his golden oak office chair and the prosperously filled canvas sack at his elbow he still gave the impression of one under the shadow of gloomy thoughts.

And Joe, himself, was conscious of this gloom. He felt it as distinctly as one feels the hush that comes before a storm. He was not expecting a storm of any sort. His life, so far as he could see, was all fair weather with no clouds even on the most distant horizon. Yet, with apparently no reason at all, he was feeling, as he would have said, “glum.” Without any apparent cause, he was burdened with a sense of something wrong—a feeling of impending trouble.

For nearly twenty years now the groceryman had “made up the cash” at half past one and had walked to the bank. Joe was a director in the First National. The First National was as sound as old wheat. His business was as sound as the bank. Whatever the cause of his low spirits it was certainly not financial troubles. The only financial trouble the groceryman knew was the universal trouble of not having enough. As for that, Joe Paddock often reflected that he had all he wanted, and always he added, “for myself.”

A clerk presented himself listlessly. “Mr. Paddock,” he whined, “that Carlton woman wants us to charge another order—five dollars and thirty cents—says her old man is working again now and will pay week from Saturday. What’ll I do?”

The groceryman did not look up.

The clerk raised his voice with a complaining note as if protesting at the unnecessary labor of repeating his question. “Mr. Paddock, that Carlton woman—”

“Heh—Oh, excuse me, Bill—sure—all right—give her what she wants.”

The cleric turned wearily away.

“What in thunder is the matter with me?” mused Joe uneasily.

Grasping the canvas sack as he rose, he stepped to the door of his office. In the doorway he paused and from long habit looked over the store. It was not a large store—just an ordinary, commonplace, well established grocery. Shelves behind the counters from floor to ceiling, filled with brightly labeled canned goods, packages of breakfast foods, boxes of pepper and spices, bottles of olives and pickles, jars of preserves. Show cases filled with candies, cigars and trinkets. A big red coffee mill, a cheese under a screen cover, a glass-doored cupboard for bread and cookies, a golden oak refrigerator. Crates of vegetables, apples, oranges, lemons, a hanging bunch of bananas. Stacks of flour in sacks, barrels and boxes. A mixed odor of everything edible flavored with every known spice, tea and coffee, coal oil, molasses and gasoline. That odor was as familiar and uninspiring to Joe Paddock as the smell of hay to a farmer, the tang of the sea to a sailor or the odor of a stable to a hostler.

Joe Paddock had no great absorbing interest in his grocery. It was a good business, as good as any other, better than some. He had become a groceryman for no particular reason; it had seemed a good thing. He accepted it as he accepted the other commonplaces of life such as family cares, taxes, politics, schools, religion. As his eye, directed by habit, took in this familiar scene of his everyday life he noticed the delivery boy, Davie Bates, staggering under a basket of groceries toward the rear door where a Ford delivery car was waiting. Davie was a pale-faced, thin-shouldered, weak-limbed lad, sadly underfed and pitifully overworked. The groceryman’s kindly thought was that Davie really ought not to lift such a heavy load. But confound it, the boy was late. He should have been started with his first afternoon delivery a good hour ago. Joe Paddock and Davie’s mother had been sweethearts in their boy and girl days. Then Joe had married Laura Louise Fields and become a groceryman and Mary had married a young carpenter, Dave Bates. “Darn those clerks—worthless, triflin’ lot—can’t keep their minds on their work a minute! Bill, there, ’s gassin’ with that Susie Brown, flapper; Tom and Hank, they’re visitin’ with each other and three customers waiting!” He walked toward the front of the store and the clerks became attentive. When he reached the sidewalk he paused again and stood looking up and down the street. He seemed to be waiting for some one, or something. But he was not. He was merely standing there. And the groceryman, himself, curiously enough, had the feeling of waiting for some one or something.

Charlie Bannock, the druggist, on the southeast corner of the block, stopped. “Hello, Joe, goin’ to the bank?”

“Hello, Charlie. Yep.”

“I’ve just been. How’s business, Joe?”

The groceryman answered with listless indifference: “Business? Oh, business is all right.” Then, as if his dulled interest had suddenly kindled he repeated with a show of enthusiasm: “Business is fine, Charlie, fine.” The final word flamed out right heartily and in the glow of it he was able to ask with spirit: “How is it with you, Charlie?”

“Never seen it so good. Tell you, Joe, we’re goin’ to be a big town some day. Hear about the building permits? Increase already one hundred per cent over last year. Banks all show big increase in deposits, too. So long—must be gettin’ back on the job.”

“So long, Charlie.”

The groceryman felt the flame of the moment flickering, dying. Already the chill of his unwarranted gloom was upon him. He looked carefully up and down the street. There was nothing wrong anywhere. State Street was a good street, best in town for the grocery store. Even at this hour of the day it was a scene of hustling activity, with clatter and rattle and roar enough to fully justify the druggist’s optimism. The groceryman’s nearest neighbor, Jim Hadley, came out to stand in front of his store—gent’s furnishings—and Joe moved a few slow steps to the side of his brother merchant.

“Hello, Jim.”

“Hello, Joe. How’s business?”

“Business? Oh, business is all right—fine, Jim—business is fine! How’s yours?”

“Great, Joe. Last month biggest month I ever had. Hear about the building permits? One hundred per cent increase. Bank deposits coming up all the time, too. Lots of strangers in town. All Westover needs now is some big capital—big factories, mills or automobile works or something. Missed you at the Booster’s Club luncheon to-day, Joe. What’s matter? You know our motto: ‘Keep a-pushin’!’ Got everythin’ goin’ our way now if we only just keep a-pushin’! Remember them two frogs that fell into the can of milk? One of ’em says ‘It’s no use’ and sank to the bottom and drowned. T’other just kept a kickin’ and kicked out a chunk of butter big enough to float around on till the farmer let him out in the mornin’.” He slapped Joe on the back and laughed as heartily as though he had not told that old story a thousand and one times before.

At the corner, as the groceryman waited for an opening in the stream of traffic, a big, shiny car with a liveried chauffeur at the wheel and an imposing personage in the rear seat passed. The personage, seeing the groceryman, smiled and bowed. Joe returned the salutation in his best manner. Mrs. Jamison was his wealthiest customer. The Jamisons had a wine cellar—all pre-war stuff—so Joe had heard. Mrs. Jamison went every season to New York for grand opera. Joe’s wife always called his attention to the news in the Morning Herald and in the Evening Star. Mrs. Jamison, it was generally understood, always ran over to Paris for her gowns. Mrs. Jamison never wore a dress, she always wore a gown. As her shining car was chauffeured proudly on down the street, Mrs. Jamison was thinking: “What an utterly commonplace man—good man, though, no doubt of that—real backbone-of-the-country class. And what a commonplace business, a groceryman, ugh!” Mrs. Jamison’s husband was a promoter of almost anything that could be promoted.

The glow of being recognized by Mrs. Jamison lasted Joe Paddock almost until he reached the First National Bank.

There were long queues of customers waiting their turns at the different windows. After all, to be a director of the First National of Westover was something. The groceryman really did not need to wait in the line at his window but he liked it. He liked the nods and smiles of greeting. He fancied they were thinking: “Joe Paddock is a director here,” and it gave him a sense of importance which he never enjoyed in his store—nor, for that matter, anywhere else.

It was his turn at the window. As he plumped the canvas sack down on the marble slab he greeted the teller with a cheerful “Hello, Frank.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Paddock.” (The groceryman was a director.) “How are you to-day?”

“Me? Oh, I’m all right—’bout as usual.”

“Business pretty good?”

“Business? Oh, yes, business is good.” He was watching the teller sort and stack the coins. “Business is very good, Frank—fine.”

As the groceryman, with his empty sack, turned from the window the teller glanced after him curiously.

The president’s desk was at the far end of the room just inside the low wall of polished marble which separated the First National officials from the outer world. The open-and-above-board effect of this arrangement was supposed to engender a feeling of confidence in the financial heart of the public while at the same time the marble wall prevented the customers from intruding too far into the financial heart of the institution. The president beckoned to Joe and the groceryman went to lean on the marble wall with two of the bank’s largest depositors, Ed Jones, real estate, and Mike Donovan, general contractor.

Before the others could speak, Jones, who always spoke first in any company, greeted the groceryman with: “What’s the matter with you, Joe, you missed the Rotary Club again this week?”

“Couldn’t help it, Ed,” Joe answered with a feeble grin. “I was out of town, at the farm.” He forced himself to meet the quizzical humor of Mike Donovan’s keen Irish eyes. “How are you, Mike?”

The contractor’s heavy voice rumbled up from the depths of his broad chest: “Purty good, Joe, purty good. I guess I’m gettin’ mine all right.”

The banker, the groceryman and the real estate man laughed.

As Donovan and Jones moved on the bank president murmured admiringly: “You bet your life, Mike is getting his.” Then, with a friendly interest which was genuine and a smile of honest affection, he said: “Well, Joe, how are you anyway?”

The groceryman tried to smile. “Oh, I’m all right, I guess, Henry.”

Joe Paddock and Henry Winton were born on neighboring farms. They had attended the same country school, fished and swum together in Mill Creek, hunted in the same woods, skated in winter and picnicked in summer with the same crowd. Together they had attended the State University at Westover and were graduated in the same class.

Banker Winton was shrewdly studying his old friend’s face. “What’s the matter with you, Joe? You don’t act like yourself lately. What’s the trouble, old man?”

The groceryman moved uneasily. “Oh, I don’t know, Henry. Nothin’, I guess, just feelin’ sort o’ grouchy.”

Winton was sympathetic. “Liver out of order? Kidneys, maybe, when a man gets along our age, you know, Joe.”

“Aw, there’s nothing the matter with me physically. Doc Gordon says I’m sound as a nut—eat anything I want—sleep like a top—no ache nor pain nor anything. It’s nothing like that. How are you, Henry?”

The banker’s face seemed suddenly to reflect his friend’s troubled spirit. It was almost as if he had, for a moment, dropped a mask. “To tell the truth,” he lowered his voice to a confidential pitch, “I’ve been feeling a little below par myself. I’m just like you, don’t know what it is—it’s not business—business couldn’t be better. We’re going to show darned near fifty per cent increase over this month last year, Joe. Your business all right, isn’t it?”

“Business—oh, yes, business is good—fine, Henry—fine!”

They were silent for a moment as if they had unintentionally reached the end of the conversation.

Then the groceryman, with a painful attempt at casual cheerfulness, asked: “How’s Mary these days? Haven’t seen her for a coon’s age. Laura and I were talking about it last night.”

The banker lowered his eyes and turned his face a little to one side. “Mary’s all right, Joe,” he answered slowly, “that is, she would be if it wasn’t for—well, she worries a lot—you know. How is Laura?”

“She’s well—’bout as usual,” the groceryman answered gravely.

“No need to ask about Georgia,” said Winton, trying to smile, “she was in here this morning.” Georgia was Joe Paddock’s daughter.

The groceryman did not answer, neither did he smile. Then, lowering his voice and speaking as if the question had been in his mind all the time, he asked: “How is Harry doing lately, Henry?”

The banker again turned his face away and slowly shook his head. Harry was Henry Winton’s son.

A brisk but suave voice broke the spell. The banker caught up his mask. The groceryman, who was leaning over the marble wall, jerked himself erect. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How do you do, Mr. Winton? How are you, Mr. Paddock?” It was George Oskins, proprietor of the Palace Hotel.

“Hello, Oskins,” returned Winton.

“How do you do, Mr. Oskins?” said Paddock.

It will be noted that the hotel man addressed the banker as Mr. Winton while the banker called him simply Oskins, which may be understood fairly to indicate their business relationship. The hotel man saying Mr. Paddock and the groceryman returning with Mr. Oskins shows as clearly that the supplies for the Palace were purchased wholesale in Kansas City.

“Didn’t see you at the Chamber of Commerce luncheon Tuesday, Mr. Paddock,” said Oskins in a tone of “My dear sir, how can you expect Westover to progress without your honored presence at the Chamber of Commerce luncheon?”

“No, I missed it,” replied the groceryman dryly.

Henry Winton asked briskly: “How is the hotel business, Oskins?”

The proprietor of the Palace was eagerly and anxiously enthusiastic. “Wonderful, Mr. Winton. Every room in the house full. Had to turn down twenty reservations last week. By the way,” he put his soft pudgy hand on the groceryman’s arm to draw him closer and, leaning confidentially over the marble wall, spoke in a hushed tone, “we have a guest at the hotel that you gentlemen really ought to meet. Wonderful man! All kinds of money, I should say, or at least represents mighty big interests—impresses you that way. He’s here for some time—wouldn’t say how long—monthly rates—wonderfully interested in Westover. Just the kind of big business man we need. I recommended the First National.”

“What’s his name?” asked the banker.

“Saxton, John Saxton, registered from Kansas City.”

“Saxton—Saxton—” the banker repeated thoughtfully. “Name sounds familiar. Ever hear of him, Joe?”

“Saxton?” The groceryman shook his head. “Don’t recall that I have.”

“He’s somebody big all right,” said Oskins. “The kind that you just naturally give the best room in the house, you know. If you gentlemen will drop around to the hotel this afternoon, say about four o’clock, I’ll see that you meet him.”

“I’m tied up this afternoon,” said Winton. “How about you, Joe?”

The groceryman answered indifferently: “I guess I could make it.”

“I’ll be in the lobby at four,” said Oskins, and bustled away.

“Oskins is a pretty good sort,” remarked the banker as if some explanation were necessary. “We carry the hotel for a little more than we would, ordinarily, but on the other hand he’s in a position to do us a lot of good turns. Sends us a pretty good bunch of business altogether. You’d better drop around and meet this man Saxton, Joe. Can’t tell what might come of it.”