Читать книгу William Adolphus Turnpike - William Banks - Страница 4

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William had engaged himself to work for Mr. Charles Whimple, "barrister, etc.," just one week previously in response to that gentleman's advertisement for "a bright and intelligent office boy; one who knows the city well." When he arrived at the office on the morning after the insertion of the advertisement, Whimple found William busily engaged in dusting off the lone table in his room. At the back of the office, with its small, very small, ante-room, was the office of his friend, Simmons, and as he was usually down an hour earlier than Whimple, he "opened up" and kept an eye on things for the barrister until he arrived. As Whimple entered, William greeted him with a cheery "Good-morning, Mr. Whimple."

"Good-morning, what are you doing here?"

"I'm your office boy."

"You are——"

"Sure," said William cheerily, "I sent the other bunch away."

"The other bunch——"

"Yep; say, Mr. Whimple——"

"But just a minute," Mr. Whimple interrupted, "how did you know my name? Have we met before?"

"Search me—if we did we wasn't interduced."

"Then how did you know?"

William stopped dusting and regarded him thoughtfully.

"How did you know?" Whimple repeated.

"I always know," the boy repeated slowly, and then, as though communing with himself, "yes, I always know," and, as to-day, there was that in William's voice that haunted and held Whimple, as it has done many since. But that comes later.

William went on still dusting slowly. "Say, Mister Whimple, I mayn't be much, but the rest of the gang was the greatest c'lection er mutts you ever seen. Honest, I don't believe there was one of 'em could say the alphabet without thinking ten minutes first. And I needed the job most anyway."

"How do you know?"

"Because I looked 'em over good, and I heard 'em saying how many hours' work they'd do a day and how much they wanted for it, and most of 'em was saying about how they showed their other bosses what's what. So I knew they didn't want a job; they just wanted a place to bum in. You should'er heard me shooing 'em away. I told 'em you had made your selection and I was IT."

Whimple smiled and William returned the salute. He saw in his employer a young man, tall, with a brown-eyed, good-looking face, and a head of red hair. And Whimple saw a rather thin but healthy-looking lad with a somewhat long face, a nose that William himself always referred to as "pug," round blue eyes, freckles, and hair—well, just "mouse coloured" William's mother always called it.

Their acquaintanceship ripened into friendship very fast; too fast Whimple thought, for by mid-afternoon he had told the boy a great deal about himself and his past and his prospects. And William had listened, asking a question occasionally, sometimes interjecting a remark, and always, so Whimple says now, with an aptness that surprised and delighted him. William evinced no surprise and no regret when informed that bright as were the prospects, two dollars a week, for the present, was the maximum salary he could hope for.

"Don't worry about that," said William when Whimple apologised for the smallness of the amount. "It'll help some at home, and mebbe I ain't worth no two dollars a week anyhow."

"Don't underestimate yourself, William," said Whimple.

"No chance of me doing that. Say, Mr. Whimple, supposin' I'm any good and business improves, me salary goes up too—that's right, ain't it?"

"That's right, my boy."

"Then," solemnly, "it's up to us to increase the business, and to make this office too small to hold the people that want to hire you."

And Whimple smiled again. The lad's cheeriness, the eagerness of the keen young face, and the tone of the voice put new heart into him. The fame he had dreamed of on the day he had been called to the bar was still a phantom; the struggle to earn a living in the profession he had chosen in the years when youth brooked no obstacles was keener far than ever he had believed possible, yet there remained to him hope, courage, and the determination to "look for the silver lining." At thirty he had few clients, and a legacy that brought him just $6.00 a week, and often had been his only barrier against real want. His father and mother had died while he was just a boy; relatives had given him a home until at eighteen he had started "clerking" in a law office, and with his wages and his legacy had carried himself through to the day when his name appeared among those called to the bar. Simmons he had met in the clerking days; the young architect was financially better equipped than the lawyer, and Whimple had not hesitated at times to accept of his assistance—though he never felt free until the obligation had been repaid. It was Simmons who had insisted on the arrangement for the adjoining office, though Whimple at first had strongly demurred. But, indeed, an office floor with a front entrance and a rear stairway that landed you on a lane leading to a back street was not without advantages when money was scarce and bill collectors plentiful.

To many it may seem remarkable, to others amusing, and to the minority a thing unbelievable, that before the end of the first week William should have been manager of the office so far as its routine was concerned. Every one who has had the honour of acquaintance with a first-class office boy will understand. Those who have not had that experience will not, and to them is added those who do not regard boys, office or otherwise, as having the remotest bearing upon, connection with, or part in the working of the world of to-day. Your first-class office boy inspires fear. He knows his indispensability; he knows that more than anything else the boss loathes the trouble of hiring an office boy; he knows—oh! what does he not know? You who have never had to do with him, or depend upon him, go sit at the feet of him who has and try to grasp the outer rim of understanding as to the depth and height and width of the wisdom and learning, the profound knowledge of the only human being to whom the Kings of Finance and Commerce (see any daily paper) appear as they really are—just men.

Sometimes an office boy is beloved—and that not always—for the virtues that tell most in actual work. Or may be a streak of cheeriness in the otherwise inscrutable bearing; it may be a confiding, "Oh! may I trust in you, boss?" kind of manner; it may be that in the man who hires him there still remains—though now well controlled—that love of fun and careless mischievousness that seems to be peculiar to the office boy of all nationalities. What one or what combination of any or all of these qualities Whimple found quite early in William still remains a mystery.

Coming back to William, it is to be observed that while he became Grand Master of Ceremonies in full charge of the office routine, he exercised his authority with discretion and tact. By the end of the first month, he had won Whimple to an announcement on the outer door to the effect that office hours were from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.; and he had established his own luncheon hour as from 12 to 1. "It wouldn't do for you," he said gravely to Whimple, "to be takin' your lunch then, because you're a per-fession'l man. You gotter keep up with the procesh if you wanter make good."

Whimple laughed, but nodded his acceptance of the idea. "You're an inspiration, William," he said. "You've so much sunshine in your composition that you are shedding it nearly all the time, consciously or unconsciously, on the worthy and unworthy alike."

And he spoke truly; William exercised no discrimination in this regard. You could take it or leave it. Unless you had just lost some one near and dear to you, or otherwise tasted the dregs of sorrow or remorse, you couldn't ordinarily stay within a few yards of William and grieve. Not that he had not suffered, young as he was. Not that he could not and did not grieve with those he knew were in sorrow or distress; you are not to think that of William.