Читать книгу The Triumph of Virginia Dale - John MacCunn Francis - Страница 7

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Obadiah Dale’s office was in a modern building. He considered it the finest in South Ridgefield, but then–Obadiah owned it. The proximity of an army of employees disturbed him. So he had gathered his principal assistants about him, away from the mill, in this more peaceful environment.

Obadiah’s personal suite contained three rooms. His private lair was in the corner. Its windows overlooked metal cornices, tin roofs and smoke stacks. The view should have afforded inspiration to sheet metal workers, and professional atmosphere was available at all times to such chimney sweeps as called.

The personal staff consisted of Obadiah’s stenographer, Mr. Percy Jones, who referred to himself as the “Private Secretary” and was habitually addressed in discourteous terms by his employer, and a bookkeeper identified by the name Kelly.

Across the hall was the sanctum of Hezekiah Wilkins, general attorney for the Dale interests. The other executive officers of the organization occupied the rest of the floor.

Certain preparatory sounds evidencing to the discriminating ear of youth the probability of a band bursting into melody had reached Mr. Jones. Rising hurriedly from his desk in the center of the middle room of Obadiah’s suite, he had gone to a window, and peering down, discovered that the Jubilee Minstrels were about to favor South Ridgefield with a parade.

Mr. Jones watched the preparations with interest. He was a dapper little fellow with thin, dark hair, who sported a very small mustache with a very great deal of pride. As much of a dandy as his small salary would permit, he had indefinite social aspirations, and rather considered himself a man of much natural culture and refinement.

His curiosity satisfied, he turned to a door, opposite to the one which insured privacy to Obadiah, and entered the domain of Kelly. The bookkeeper was perched upon a high stool before an equally elevated desk burdened with the mill owner’s ledgers. He was red headed, big and raw boned, clearly designed by nature for the heaviest of manual labor but by a joke of fate set to wielding a pen.

“Hi, Kelly,–minstrels,” thus Mr. Jones advertised the forthcoming pageant as he lighted a cigarette.

The upper part of Kelly’s person was brilliantly illuminated by the reflected light of a globe hanging an inch above his head. “Where?” he asked, blinking about from his area of high illumination into the shadows of the room as though looking for callers.

“In the street, you chump. They are going to parade. As soon as the old man goes, we’ll hustle out and look ’em over.”

A movement in the corner room sent Mr. Jones scurrying to his desk. From the street sounded the staccato taps of a snare drum, rhythmically punctuated by the boom of the bass, passing up the street. Obadiah emerged from his room as one marching to martial music. He broke step like a rooky to tell his stenographer, “I’m going to lunch.”

Leaping to his feet, Mr. Jones bowed profoundly as his employer departed, his manner filled with the awe and respect due a man of such wealth and position. He listened intently until the elevator descended, then he shouted, “Get a move on you, in there. He’s gone.”

The bookkeeper appeared, his hat on the back of his head and struggling into his coat.

“Hurry, we can get the elevator on its next trip,” urged the stenographer.

“What’s the rush–we don’t want to run into the old man,” the bookkeeper demurred.

“We’ve got a right to eat, ain’t we? What’s the lunch hour for?”

“Say, who’s talking about not eating? I don’t want the old man’s face as an appetizer,” protested Kelly.

“Gee, he has got you bluffed. You are scared of him.”

The bookkeeper shrugged his big shoulders and laughed. “Not on your life am I afraid of that old spider, but I don’t like him. That’s all.”

“The old man is a good enough scout when you know how to handle him,” boasted Mr. Jones. “Tell him where to get off once in awhile and he’ll eat out of your hand.”

“Say,” chuckled Kelly. “The next time you decide to call him down, put me wise. I don’t want to miss it.”

“Quit your kidding and come on. You think that I am shooting hot air. I’ll show you some day.”

Their hasty luncheon was completed when the strains of music heralding the return of the minstrel show hurried them forth to the curb to procure suitable places to watch the parade.

“Kelly, look at the pickaninnies in the automobile following the band,” exclaimed Mr. Jones, greatly interested. “That’s something new. I never saw it before.” Thus he confirmed originality from the wealth of his own knowledge.

“What’s the white girl doing there?” Kelly sought information at the fountain of wisdom.

The sagacious Mr. Jones was puzzled, but for an instant only. He elucidated. “They have a white manager and that’s his wife who won’t black up.”

The explanation struck Kelly as reasonable and for the moment it sufficed, as he gave his attention to the passing machine. “That’s a peach of a car,” he proclaimed, and in further commendation, “Gosh, it’s as fine as the old man’s!”

Now it was so close that Mr. Jones was enabled to place an expert’s eyes upon it. “Why,” gasped that specialist, astounded by the revelations of his own keen optic, “blamed if it ain’t the old man’s car and,” he stammered in his excitement, “I–I–It’s the old man’s daughter–Virginia–in that minstrel parade.”

In silent wonder the young men watched the passing marvel and, turning, followed it as if expecting further events of an extremely sensational nature.

“By Jove, there’s the old man.” The eagle eye of Mr. Jones had picked his employer unerringly from amidst the multitude. “He sees the car,” the stenographer continued, as one announcing races, on distant tracks, to interested spectators. “Wilkins is kidding him. He’s getting sore. We’d better beat it.” Regardless of previous fearlessness, Mr. Jones guided his companion into the entrance of a building from which vantage point they watched the meeting of Obadiah and his daughter.

“By crackie, he’s hot. Everybody is laughing at him.” To prove the truth of his own assertion, Mr. Jones threw back his head and guffawed cruelly at the embarrassment of his employer.

One o’clock found the two clerks at their desks. Obadiah was a punctual man. Always on time himself, he demanded it of his employees. Today, however, minutes flew by with no sign of the manufacturer’s return.

At one thirty, Mr. Jones entered Kelly’s room to confer in regard to this unwonted tardiness. Resting his elbows upon the bookkeeper’s desk he projected his head within the area of light in which his colleague labored and submitted a sporting proposition. “I’ll bet my hat that the old man is raising the deuce somewhere.”

Kelly inspected the illuminated face of the stenographer with interest, as if the brilliant rays exposed flaws which he had not previously noted. Disregarding the wager, he replied with emphasis, “You said a mouthful.”

Mr. Jones displayed marked uneasiness. “I’m surprised that he is not back. He had important matters to attend to.” The stenographer waxed mysterious. “Only this morning he called me in. ‘Mr. Jones,’ sez he, ‘I must have your invaluable assistance, today, on a matter of great importance. I couldn’t get along without your help. Please, don’t step out without warning me.’ ”

Apparently Kelly regarded the stenographer’s secret revelations lightly. “You told him that you didn’t have the time?” he suggested with a grin.

Mr. Jones attempted to frown down unseemly levity regarding serious matters.

Kelly burst into laughter. “Gee, if I wasn’t here to keep you off the old man, he sure would suffer.”

Mr. Jones changed the subject, before such frivolity. “He ought to fire that feller Ike. I’ll bet he’s to blame for the whole thing. The idea of getting a young lady mixed up in a mess like that. He ought to be fired.” Mr. Jones’ soul revolted at the notoriety which had befallen his employer’s daughter. He became thoughtful and then confidential. “That girl is a pippin, Kelly. A regular pippin.”

“You’ve said it.” The bookkeeper’s emphasis spoke volumes.

“Did you ever think about her?”

“Sure,” admitted Kelly with candor, “lots of times.”

“That girl lives a lonesome life in that big house with only the colored servants and her father,” alleged the knowing Mr. Jones. “What fun does she ever have? The old man thinks that she is only a baby. If she has a nurse and is taken out every day for an airing, he imagines nothing else is necessary.”

“You are talking,” quoth Kelly.

“If the old man had any brains–” Mr. Jones noted a correction–“I mean, if he was a cultured and refined man, if he was alive–” Mr. Jones’s manner expressed grave doubt of Obadiah’s vitality–“He would understand that young people must enjoy themselves once in awhile.” Poignant memories of the mill owner’s refusal to grant certain hours off for social purposes embittered the stenographer at this point in his discourse. He paused. “If he had any brains, instead of hanging around and trying to grab every cent that isn’t locked in a burglar proof safe, the old duffer would open up his swell house and spend some coin. He’s got plenty of money. It sticks to him as if his hands were magnets and his fingers suction cups.”

“I say so,” agreed Kelly, with a vigorous nod.

For a moment Mr. Jones departed to assure himself that Obadiah did not surreptitiously draw nigh. Thus reassured, he returned and vigorously pursued his scathing arraignment of the absent one. “If he had red blood in his veins he’d have a heart where that girl is concerned. Why doesn’t he ever give a dance for her? If he wasn’t an old tight wad he’d give several a week, have a swell dinner every night and a theater party each time a decent show comes to town. He’d do that thing if he wasn’t a short sport. He ought to get a lively bunch of young people to make his place their social headquarters and tear things loose.”

“That’s me.” Thus did the laconic Kelly record his position.

Mr. Jones went on, “He should give his daughter the opportunity to enjoy the better things of life.” The stenographer drifted over to a window and fell to musing. He gave thought to volumes of lighter literature which had led him to believe that, in well conducted families of wealth and position, private secretaries often assumed the responsibilities of social secretaries or major domos. Turning again to the bookkeeper, he resumed, “It takes certain peculiar qualifications to handle that sort of thing. Everybody knows that the old man couldn’t do it. He ought to come out like a man and admit that he has no conception of that bigger social life which plays such an important part in the world today. Then–” Mr. Jones spoke with great meaning–“there are those who understand such matters and could relieve him of all responsibilities except–” Mr. Jones snapped his fingers as though it was a bagatelle–“signing the checks.”