BEST SHORT STORIES

Otago Witness, Issue 4029, 2 June 1931, Page 8

BEST SHORT STORIES

X.—AMBITION IS A WOMAN.

By

GERALD MYGATT.

(Copyright.—For the Otago Witness.)

The atmosphere in the Chadwick's living room was faintly charged with a tension. Harry was well aware of it, and he know that Marge was too. She sat there sewing, hemming towels, and now and again, a little too cheerfully, she would lift her head and give utterance to random thoughts—to anything, as a matter of fact, except what Harry knew was really on her mind. She had just finished telling him in some detail about Edna Lane’s new jersey dress, and she had even laughed •—which normally she wouldn’t have — at Harry’s rather lame query as to whether .they were beginning to name clothes after States. Then the conversation had lapsed again. It was Harry’s turn now. Anything was better than sitting there like a couple of dummies. He looked up from his newspaper and said without much hope: “I see Jim Bottomley’s been voted the most valuable player in the National League.” “ That’s nice,” said his wife, as if she cared.

“ Yeah, he gets a thousand smackers for it,” Harry volunteered. “ He’s with the Cards. Plays first.” “ Oh, yes,” said Margery, and then because her comment seemed vaguely inadequate she added, “of course,” That concluded that. Margery went ahead with the hemming of her towels. Her husband went ahead with his intensive study of contemporary history. Inevitably he read his newspapers backwards; radio page first, a glance at the comics, then the sporting pages, and then —if there was time —the general news. To-night, however, his mind wasn’t with him. It would have been a whole lot better, he reflected, if only they could have gone to the movies. But they couldn’t go on account of the kids, fast asleep upstairs. Even Mrs Bellinger next door, who came in sometimes to stay while he and Marge went out, was off at the movies to-night herself. A super-special picture too; one of those war things with a punch in it. So here they were, sitting like a couple of boobs and making phoney talk out of nothing; not even able to play the radio, since junior was teething and restless. It was a bad break all around. Funny, Marge always got blue this way when anybody they knew down at the plant was promoted or got a raise. It was at if she had an idea, thought Harry, that he himself ought to get all the raises, and nobody else. Not that she ever said so, actually. But Harry could tell. . . . Oh, well! She’d snap out of it, all right. She always did. With the required crackling calisthenics Harry turned over a page of the newspaper and smoothed it neatly then idly gave it his attention. Presently as he read his forehead creased itself, and then little by little his eyes brightened and he began to smile. “ That’s funny, all right,” he mumbled. He read some more and broke out chuckling. “ Wouldn’t that put the bee on you 1 ” he remarked aloud.

“ What’s that, Harry ? ” “ Oh, nothing. Just a college professor who claims he’s doped out the average American. You know, they’re always talking about it—average American this and average American that. Well, this professor has been doping it cut from insurance statistics—see? Wait a minute. See if this doesn’t give you a laugh.” He bent over the paper again, found his place and read: “ ’ Assuming that these masses of figures are trustworthy, it follows that the average American, renowned in editorials and political speeches, can be described with exactitude. He must not be confused with the typical American, who does not exist. The average American is a mathematical certainty.’ That's the hooey part,” said Harry. “ Now listen:

“ ‘ The average American is 33 years old. He is scant sft Bin in height, and weighs 1521 b. He has brown hair and brown eyes. He wears a size 38 suit, a 15 collar, a 7 1-8 hat, and an 8-C shoe. He is married and has two children, a boy and a girl. The chances are almost precisely eve.n that there will be a third child.’ ” Margery said: “That’s news. Does he mean us ? ” “ Listen and see whether he means ns. ‘ The average American lives neither in the city nor in the country, but in a combination of the two. His average home is in the outskirts or suburbs of a manufacturing town or city of moderate size. He owns his home in theory, but actually does not, since he either has it mortgaged or is paying for it on some instalment basis.' He has an automobile and owns it; it took him 15 . months to pay for it, and he bought it second hand. He has a radio upon which he is still paying instalments, and the overstuffed couch and two overstuffed chairs in his liviryg room were bought on the same basis.’” Harry paused profoundly. “ Say, wouldn’t that knock you for a loop! Size 8-C shoe and all! ”

He studied his own shoes now as if he had never seen them before. Margery said, “Is there any more?” “ Sure, quite a lot.” “Read on Mac Duff. It’s interesting.” He picked up the paper. <*“ *At the age of 33, which is his age, the average American is working for somebody else. He is either a skilled mechanic or a clerk, using both terms in the broadest sense. He is content with his position in life, and will defend it. His first interest is his home and family. His second interest is his work. He belongs to a lodge and goes to it. He belongs to a church and seldom goes to it.’ ” Said Margery with a shadow of a smile: “That’s wrong. You never go.” “ Yes, I do, too. Remember that time last year?” He bent over the paper again. “ Where was I ? Oh, yes! ‘He belongs to a church and seldom goes to it. Instead he spends his Sundays at home, resting, reading the newspapers, tinkering with his car; in favourable weather he goes out driving with his family. Though not religious in the oldfashioned sense he is scrupulously honest and is bound by a strict code of ethics. In -politics he is a conversative.’ ” Now Harry Chadwick lifted his head. “ I guess that’s not so bad,” he stated with a gleam as of pride.

Margery said: “ You’re crazy, Harry, You’d think he was describing you personally, the way you talk.” “Well, isn’t he, just about? Sure he’s describing me. You too—the house and everything. I’d like to know why not.” “ But, Harry, he’s just making somebody up. It isn’t a real person.” He withered her with a look. “ What do you take' me for, a sap ? He doesn’t 1 know who the guy is, naturally.” Now he began to grin. “ That’s where you and I have it on him.” She faced him. What she said was: “ You wouldn’t want to be just an average American, Harry.” “ Gee, what’s the matter with that ? ” He eyed her with astonishment. “ I guess there’s nothing to be ashamed of in that, Marge. Being an average American is good enough for anybody, if you ask me.” He shook his head and added: “ I don’t get you _at all.” She eat silent for a moment. Then she asked him to let her see the paper. He tossed it to her. She re-read the entire article, nodding thoughtfully. Then abruptly she looked up with a smile. “ You didn't finish it,” she said. He moved his hands negligently. “ Oh, the rest is just tripe.” His wife laughed. She said goodhumouredly: “I take it back. He was writing about you, big boy—you and nobody else. Listen: The average American sets great store by common sense and believes he lives by it, but he cannot define it. He is extremely gullible, readily falling prey to quack .medicines, humbug character analysts,

and fraudulent investment salesmen.’ ” Her husband reddened. He did not need to be reminded of a certain hundred dollars that had gone two years ago into an entirely imaginary oil well. But he managed to smile and say lightly: “ That has all the marks of a dirty crack, honey. Anyway, I wasn’t the only one that fell for that bird.” Margery crossed the room swiftly and kissed him and rumpled his hair. “ Forget it,” she commanded. “Just the

same, Harry, it does complete the picture. As the political speechmakers say on the radio, I concede you the victory. You win the fur-lined brown derby. You’re him. You’re the average American, and no questions asked.” He smiled at her half-sheepishly. “ Well, that’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he protested.

“ No, it isn’t,” she conceded. Now suddenly she thought of something. “ Harry, it doesn’t say there how much the average American earns. I’d like to know that.”

Together they searched the article in the newspaper. There was no mention of wages or salary. “ That’s funny,” said Harry uneasily. “ Though maybe they haven’t any way of doping that out. You know, they’d

have to find out exactly what everybody made, and people are always sort of leary about broadcasting their own pay envelope. It’s only in the army and navy that men wear their wages on their arms and shoulders.” He fell silent. “ I’ll bet I earn as much as the next man, though,” he said presently. “If I’m average in everything else its a cinch I’m average in that.” He looked towards Margery as if for confirmation of this theory, but apparently she was not listening. Then he remembered with a start that to-night was no night for a discussion of this topic. Herb Anderson only that morning had been promoted and given a neat raise, and Herb Anderson’s wife Eunice was one of Margery's close friends. i It seemed that a woman didn’t look at those things the same sensible way a man did. Herb was a good guy and he deserved a boost. He’d worked for it, too. But that didn’t make it any easier for Marge to see. Funny, the way she took it. As if it was personal. As if Eunice Anderson was cheating her out of something, almost. Harry shook his head moodily. Oh, well! Marge would snap out of it. She always did. Anyway, to-morrow would be another day.

To-morrow was. As he drank his morning’s coffee Harry’s eyes twinkled and he proclaimed to Marge and the children that he was a movie of the average American eating his breakfast. “ You mean a talkie,” said Marge. Even in his hurry to get away Harry found time to pose grandiloquently for

a second upon the lawn. “ Average American going to work,” he announced with a. deep bow, Then he raced down the street to catch the bus.

Margery followed his diminishing figure with eyes that were maternally fond. Harry was so darned nice, so good-natured when he wasn’t actually cross about something, so friendly and generous to the kids and to her. And yet . . . and yet . . . she couldn’t exactly name it, but there was something she wished. Now he disappeared, still at a run, around the far corner, and there was nothing to look at but the street; a nice plain street lined on both sides with nice plain houses; trees look bare now, but green and shady in summer. There was every reason they should be satisfied, and yet . . . Marge turned briskly back into the house.

Down at the plant Harry naturally showed the newspaper around. He knew he was letting himself in for a lot of kidding, but it would be friendly kidding, and after all not everybody could boast of being an average American. It was something to be proud of, really. His fellows in the checking department crowded around him, and even the department manager read the piece in the paper with solemnity. When he returned home that evening Harry found a reporter from the local paper waiting for him on the porch. “ Gee, how did you hear about it ? ” Harry asked in wonderment. “ Somebody from the plant telephoned it in. You know, we have representatives there.” Now the reporter became reportorial. “We want a statement, of course, Mr Chadwick. And we want a picture, too—your best and latest. Of course, we ll send a photographer up in

the morning to get a picture of your house and your family and your ear and all that, but if you’ve got a picture you could let me have now ” Margery, who was standing beside him, said bluntly: “My husband hasn’t any picture and you’re not going to take any. This is just a joke and it’s gone far enough.” The two men looked at her blankly. She gave them look for look, her face unsmiling. Now her husband frowned. “ But listen here,” he began uneasily. “ There’s nothing to listen to, Harry. I’ve been thinking about it all day, and then when this —this gentleman came, I made up my mind. Why, Harry, you’re not an average American at all.” The reporter, sensing the abrupt loss of a story, proceeded to take charge “Now, Mrs Chadwick, that’ll be all right. Honest it will. Naturally it’s a surprise to you, becoming prominent this way all at once, but wait till you see the way we handle it. Wait till your friends see your pictures in the paper. Of course, if Mr Chadwick hasn’t got a picture of himself, we’ll send our man here or on to the plant, whichever you say. But naturally we want some pictures of you and the kiddies, too.” He turned to Harry. “Now, Mr Chadwick. If you’ll just answer a few questions. For instance, ho.w does it feel to know you’re the average American—the average out of this whole great country of a hundred and ten million people? ” Margery caught her husband’s lapel. I “ Please,”' she whispered.

It was then that Harry paused to peer at her. Something was wrong and he didn’t get it. Her eyes were pleading with him. Her whole body seemed tense. There was some reason why she didn’t want him to say anything; he could understand that all right. Now she whispered “ please ” again and caught his arm as if to draw him inside the house.

Harry smiled tentatively, perplexedly, first at her and then at the reporter. “ Whatever she says goes,” he said to the latter.

The reporter said, “ But Mrs Chadwick, don’t you think that’s—well, foolish? ” Then he had an inspiration. “ Perhaps you’d like to make a statement for him,” he suggested. Margery raised her chin. “ Yes, I will. And you can put it in the paper if you want to, too. Mr Chadwick is not an average American. He’s way above the average—way above. Why, the idea —just because we were joking about it —of coming here and acting as if my husband is just average. If you want my opinion, you’ve got a nerve.” Later, indoors, Harry and Margery had it out. . / “ You’re not,” she maintained vehemently. “ I just won’t have it, that’s all. You’re better than the average, Harry—a whole lot better. You’ve got to be.” “ But honey, that college professor had the figures, and the dope happened to fit, that’s all. I can’t' help it, can I? Anyway, I don’t see that it’s anything to get hot and bothered about. If I’m average, I’m average, and you can talk yourself blue, but I’ll still be average. I’m not ashamed of it, at that.” “ Well, I am,” she stormed. “ Don’t you realise what average means, Harry? it means' you’re halfway between the top and the bottom —neither one thing nor the other—neither big nor litttle — neither good nor bad. It means you’re just nothing.” “ If I’m halfway up,” he said quickly, “ there are at least as many men behind me as there are ahead.” “ Yes, and there are as many ahead as there are behind —just as many. And the ones ahead are bigger men and better men, or else they wouldn’t he ahead.” He said defensively: “ I don’t remember that I ever claimed to be any ball of fire, honey. You didn’t marry me thinking I was going to turn out to be Edison or Henry Ford or Gene Tunney, did you ? ” She smiled in spite of herself. “Of course not,” she told him. “ But just the same, Harry, I do think ” He interrupted her. “ I know what you’re going to say. It’s because other men down at ' the plant have been raised or given better jobs lately, and I haven’t been. Isn’t that it?” She hesitated. Then: “ Well ” “ You just don’t seem to get the idea,” he informed her earnestly. “ I’ve tried to explain it before, but you don’t get it. There’s three thousand men in the plant, Marge—see? That’s three thousand including the shops and offices and all. I’m doing my work and they’re doing theirs. In my own department there are almost a hundred, all go’od fellows and all working hard — most of ’em, anyway. Well, if you want to get down to figures, even in my own department my chances of getting a promotion are one in a hundred. A man has to figure that way or he’d go nuts. And the actual chances are worse than that because sometimes they promote from one department to another—like our manager, came over from shipping. Promotions are funny, Marge. Some man does some little thing extra well that gets the boss’s eye, and before you know it he’s the next in line. Or else the boss likes his looks, or something. You never can tell.” “ That seems very silly,” she commented.

“ No, it’s the way things go. It all comes out in the wash. I mean if you do your work you’ll get along. But not necessarily this ■week or next week—see? Gee, I’m doing all right, honey. I can’t be raised every time, any more than any other man can. You’ve got to get that out of your head. Anyway, they made me supervisor two years ago, didn’t they? And I guess that helped, didn’t it?'” His eyes went automatically to the radio set in the corner, first fruit of their increased income. His wife said: “Of course it helped. I’m not kicking. Harry. But that only put you even with Herb Anderson, and now—and now ” She caught herself. “ Oh, go ahead and say it,” retorted Harry, just irritably. “ Say it, can’t you? Herb Anderson’s promoted ahead of me and you’re ashamed of me.” “ I’m not either.” She faced him hotly. “Well, you act it.” “ I didn’t say a thing till you brought it up.” “You did too.” “I didn’t. You brought it up yourself, Harry, because it was on yout mind, and I know it’s on your mind and I wish I could help you.” He blinked; that was all. She knew she had hurt him, and all the mother instinct in her wanted to rush to him and tell him she didn’t mean it and was sorry. But some other instinct, stronger now, held her rigid. She heard him mumble. “ A lot of help you are,” but his retort didn’t really register. She was staring at him, apparently. She could tell by the queer- questioning way he stared back at her. But that didn’t matter either. She was thinking, thinking fast.

Only that morning, to top off the Herb Anderson news, Edna Lane had come across the street with eager, sparkling eyes. The Lanes had no business living on their street; they were too well off. George, who was in real estate, drove a Lenhard Six, not second hand, lint new and gleaming with nickel. Edna -•—well, it seemed so—got a new dress every week. Often enough Harry had said that the two of them were pikers, spending it all on flash and saving on rent and children. They had no children. But George was what Harry called a smooth proposition. Perhaps that Was why Harry detested George Lane from his grey spats—imagine grey spats on West Elm street—to Iris immaculate pearl-coloured fedora hat. Anyway Edna, who was no shrinking violet herself when it came to putting the better foot forward,. Edna had come across the street that morning and under- pledge of strict secrecy had managed to make Marge doubly unhappy. Marge, said Edna, mustn’t whisper it to a soul, not even to Harry. Because if anybody knew about the deal maybe it mightn’t go through. George, said Edna, would give her the dickens if he knew she had breathed about it to anybody. Just the same, she couldn't hold it in. She had to tell somebody. George Lad been doing such good work, had made such a remarkable record for himself as a high-powered salesman, that the Hill people in Chicago had heard about him. The Hill people were going to open an office here. George was going to be made manager—at almost double his present salary, too. What did Marge think of that? But Marge mustn’t breathe it to a soul. It wasn’t closed yet. Oh, yes, it was certain to go through, but the papers weren't signed." And until the papers were signed—- “ Don't mention it to a soul,” Edna had cautioned. “ But I couldn't resist felling you.” Darned right she couldn’t, Marge had collected bitterly. - Now, however, Marge was thinking fast. Her eyes narrowed faintly and a light began to gleam in them. To Harry, who still stared at her, she heard herself saying: “Forget it, honey. You’re just upset, that’s all. I know as well as you do that Herb Anderson had this promotion coming to him.” She waited a second, then: “There’s only one thing I couldn’t stand.” “What’s that?” Abruptly Margery felt ashamed of herself. She was deceiving Harry, lying to him, really. But just the same. . . “ I don't mind Herb and Eunice,” said Marge with a light laugh. They're all right. I want to see them get along. But I’ll tell you this, Harry Chadwick —if Edna Lane lords it over me much more I’m going to start throwing bombs.” “What do you mean?” Harry was instantly tense. " Oh, you know—the old stuff.” He laughed harshly. “Pikers!” he sniffed. “Spending it all on flash.” “ Well, he must be doing fairly well, Harry. She certainly has the clothes.” “Bunk!” said Margery’s husband, “ You could have the same clothes too if we didn’t—- —” He looked significantly toward the ceiling, which boomed with the noise of two small Chadwicks. Margery followed his look and her heart leaped with a sort of pride, because she knew that what Harry had said was partly true. But she was fighting to make a- point. She said: “I don’t blame you for disliking George, Harry. Just the same, he does work. You know how hard lie worked on that correspondence course.” “ What do you want me to do—take a correspondence course? ” “ Of course not.” Marge laughed gaily and wondered how she did it. Her brain was still working, though, and her racing thoughts were keeping a pace ahead of her words. The idea came to her: why shouldn’t Harry take a correspondence course? Anything to put him ahead. But she mustn't suggest it. She had been married long enough to know that. She laughed again and said lightly, “ Oh, that’s just Edna, I suppose. She keeps boasting about George—you know how she does. She says his principle in life is to learn all there is to learn about his business—not just one part of it, but the whole thing from the ground up. She says that’s his big idea. To know more than the next man knows. That’s how, he says, he's going to get to the top,” “ If he ever gets to the top,” muttered Harry, “ I’ll walk down State street barefooted and carrying a pink umbrella.” She kissed him then. She kissed him because she couldn’t keep from kissing him any longer. After all. Average or not, Harry was awfully sweet. “Oh, you’re so much better than anybody,” she whispered. “ I won’t have you thinking you're only average. That's the wrong way to think, dear. Why, you’re better than anybody in the world. You just remember that every minute —because I know.” “ Sure, I’m the Prince of Wales,” he agreed, and patted her shoulder. Then: “ Say, how about seeing if Mrs Bellinger will come over and watch the kids? That film is still on down at the Cameo and they say it’s a knockout.” “ And you won't be an average American any more ? ” she persevered. “ Absolutely,” he said with solemnity. But the promise, he found, was easier than its performance. Next morning at the plant he was greeted with mock cheers. An extemporised liodyguard fell in behind him and followed him

wherever he moved until the whistle blew. They called him his Majesty and made obeisance. When he wheeled upon them they ducked, laughing. “ Aw, lay off it, will you ? ” Harry pleaded. “ A joke’s a joke.” Yet the attention flattered him, and he found himself conscious of a vague disappointment when presently, two or three days later, the gaming with him began to lose interest for the men. He wanted them to forget about it, and yet, peculiarly enough, he was sorry. For a little while lie had been somebody. Now he was nobody again. He was conscious that the faintest symptoms of a revolt were beginning to brew within him. Perhaps it had something to do with his brief taste of temporary importance. Or perhaps it was what Marge had said, or rather left unsaid. His jaw was setting itself a little. Yes, probably Marge was right. A fellow ought not to be content with being just average. But what was he going to do about it? He didn’t know. He shook his head gloomily. Going home on the bus that evening he glanced idly at the front page of his newspaper, preparatory to folding it over to the radio page. A name caught his eye. There it faced him in black and white:

GEORGE LANE HEADS HILL i BRANCH OFFICE. | Chicago Coporation Enters Local Field. I Harry read the news item, while something like a cake of ice seemed to settle itself inside his chest. He read it twice. Then he glared at it dully. When he reached the house he handed the paper to Marge. “ Take a look,” he said, and pointed. “ I know it already. Edna called me up.” “ Well ? ” he challenged. Harry’s face was so white, so tense, that Marge couldn’t stand it. She flung herself against him, clutched him hotly. “ I love you,” she told him, over and over. “ You’re a million times better than he is, You are! You are! ” “ Gee, you’re a swell sport,” he whispered. It was late that night, lying awake in bed and tossing sleeplessly, that Harry Chadwick caught the first glimmer of an idea that abruptly thrilled him. Out of a clear sky it had come to him, the way he had read that big ideas always came. And with it came something else, too; the realisation that this was what he h> - d wanted all the time—just an idea. His first impulse was to awaken Marge, to tell her about it, share it with her, ask her advice. But he thought better of that. The sensible thing was to weigh it thoroughly, look at it from every angle. Yes, the idea might lie a wow, but then again it might not. At breakfast the next morning he was almost rollicking in his accustomed gaiety. His idea still seemed good, and the thrill was still with him. But he said nothing to "Margery, for there wasn’t time. All day long at the plant he mulled his Inspiration over; the more

he considered it the better it seemed to stand up. So that evening he presented it at home.

Marge listened quietly, eyeing him fondly. Dear boy, he was so pleased with himself, so proud. She loved him for it, as women always have loved men for their simplicities. He really thought the idea was his. But what she said was: “I think it’s just dandy, Harry. Oh, I’m so proud of you! ” And she was a little surprised to find that she really was proud. Next morning Harry sought out his department manager.

“ You're crazy,” said that gentleman after Harry had finished. “ I disagree with you, Mr Holtz.”

The other shrugged. “ Well, it isn’t my funeral,” he observed. “ I still think you're crazy, but if you want I’ll sea that you get an appointment with the big boss. That’s all I can do.” When Harry walked at last into the general -manager’s office he was considerably less certain that his idea was any good. In fact, as he met the manager’s cool, appraising eyes, a sickening feeling swept through him that he was nothing but a fool on a fool’s errand. Nevertheless he strode up to the big mahogany desk and stood there wait-

ing. Then he. remembered something. “ Henry Chadwick,” he stated quickly. “ Cheeking department. I asked for an interview.”

“Complaint?” queried the other sharply. “ No, sir.” He stood there straight, a w-ell set up young man with a firm chin, and he met the manager’s eyes. “ I want to learn this business,” said Harry. “ Y : ou want what * ” “ I want to learn the business. I know a good deal of it already, but I want to learn the rest. What I had in mind —that is, my idea was to see if I couldn’t be put into one of the shops.” The elder man pulled back in his chair, staring at his visitor with an uncomprehending scowl. “Sick of your job?” he snapped. “ Want something easier ? ” “ No, sir, I want something harder. I’ve been on my own job now for four years. Been here in the plant nine. Started in shipping and was moved over to checking. I’m 33 years old, Mr Mason.” “ What’s that got to do with it ? ” The other was still scowling. “ Nothing, except that I’m getting older every year. I want to get somewhere, amount to something—and I figure I can’t do that without learning the whole business. That’s why I’m asking to be put in the shops.” A crisp stenographer entered the room and laid a blue card upon the general manager’s desk. Harry knew then that the man must have pressed one of the neat electric buttons at his left hand. The manager picked up the card and studied it. He studied it with the face of a poker player.

What the manager said now was: “ You couldn’t wear that nice white collar in the shops.” Harry laughed. “Naturally,” he observed.” “ Hmm! ” mused the elder man. Then, his expression lightening slightly: “I’ll say one thing, Chadwick—your request is certainly original. Generally it’s the other way. Most of ’em want to ger, out of overalls and flannel shirts and greasy hands into white collars and swivel chairs and easy hours.” Here he glared at Harry belligerently. “Do you realise, young man, that the shops work a ten-hour day—from seven in the morning on? Do you realise that you’d have to get up an hour and a-half earlier than you do now, and get home an hour later? Do you realise you’ll be dirty all day, with cuts and iodine all over your hands and black grease under your finger nails?” “ Black grease never hurt anybody,” said Harry. “As for the longer hours, I don’t care as long as they're getting me somewhere.” Notv the general manager smiled, but without mirth. “Just where do you think they’re going to get you?” he'demanded. Said Harry: “If I learn the manufacturing end, and with what I know of

the office end, eventually I ought to be in line for a managership. I mean in the main office, where knowledge of the whole business ought to do a man good. That’s where I think it’s going to get me.” He stood even a little straighter. It was as if he were flinging out a challenge. “ Sit down,” the other barked abruptly. In a sort of daze Harry discovered that his right hand was clutching the back of a chair. He let go, moved as in a dream, seated himself. Again the manager was studying the blue card. “ Your record seems clear enough,” remarked the older man as though speaking to himself. “Hmm! Married, aren’t you? Two kids. Own your own home, too.” “ Except for the mortgages,” said Harry with a wry smile. “Well, the intention’s there.” Now the other’s expression relaxed. “ I thought your face was familiar, Chadwick. Played on the ball team, didn’t you? ” “ Yes, sir—shortstop.” “But you quit two years ago. Why did you quit ? ” Harry grinned at that question. “ I wasn’t good enough,” he explained. “ I played five years and then I just kind of eased out. Elda coming in you know'. Younger material. They played better ball.” “ Hmm! That’s reasonable. True, too, all the way along the line. Chadwick, it says here you’re popular. Are you? ” “ Gee, how would I know, Mr Mason. I guess so, maybe. I don’t know, though.” “ Wouldn’t want you to.” Now the other leaned back, placed the tips of his ten fingers together, seemed to be thinking, his eyes half closed. Presently he

sat forward again, and this time lie actually smiled. It was a warm, friendly smile. Harry, who in his own way had been withholding judgment, knew instantly that he liked the man; understood at that moment why he sat there as general manager. Said the manager conversationally: I know more about you than mavbe you’d think, Chadwick. As a matter'' of hact ! keep in pretty close touch with all the departments. Have to. You’re the man they were talking about a while back as being the average American, aren t you? It seemed you fit some set of figures, even to your collar size. Is that right? ” y es > sh',” said Harry cautiously. Suddenly he was fearful again. Hurriedly he added: “I think that’s what woke me up, Mr Mason. I mean it <mv<me a jolt. My wife didn’t like it to start with, and then I. got it. A man doesn t want to be just average.” “ It’s nothing to be ashamed°of, beiim an average American.” 0

Ao, but I’d rather be better than average. I'm going to be, too.” The other nodded slowly, as if his mind was on something else. Now he said: “Chadwick, if you ever get along m this or any other business that’s dependent upon men you'll learn a number of interesting things about the human race. You’ll learn that most men do their work satisfactorily. Y'ou’H learn that most men are reliable. You’ll learn that most men are loyal. Haven’t you already noticed that? ” * “ Y’es, sir, I have.”

The general manager leaned forward across his desk. His eyes bored stiaight into Harry’s. ‘‘The man we’re looking for all the time is the man with initiative, the man who is ready and willing, and able to start something on his own power.’’. He paused, then: “ Initiative presupposes some sort of vision. A man can’t effectively have the one quality without the other.* What I mean is, if a man is going to start something he's had to figure out first what he’s going to start.” ■He leaned back again now. Ruminatively he said: “Chadwick, I'm inclined to give you a chance—simply and for no other reason than because you came in here as you did. As you may or may not know, we've been clearing away some dead wood lately. Looking for younger, faster material, to use your baseball analogy. I’m not going, to put you in the shops. You won’t need that now, and if you ever need it later it can be arranged. Where I’m going to put you is in the personnel department. That’s a separate department, directly under this office. There'll be no raise for you. You'll go in as a clerk. And you'll work like hell. That's all.”

Harry stood up. He opened his mouth. The older man said sharply: “Don't thank me. This is business. If you find what I want you to find in that department I’ll profit as much as you will. By the way, you'll keep that dead wood matter to yourself—strictly? ” “Y’es, sir.” “ Here,” said the general manager, and stuck out his right hand. Then unexpectedly he smiled his earlier warm smile. “ Sort of surprised you, didn't it? Me too. ’Well, that’s the way I make decisions. Make ’em and unmake ’em. Good luck, my boy.” Harry didn't dare trust himself to the telephone. There was a lump in his throat. His voice, when he got hack to the checking department, sounded sort of croaky. Anyway Marge would ask questions he couldn't answer except in the privacy of their own four walls. He beat the closing whistle though and caught the fifteen minutes earlier bus. And as he raced up his street towards home he noticed to his surprise that he was singing as he ran, panting in great gulps and singing at the top of his lungs. Flinging into the house he shouted: “ Marge—Marge, it worked. I'm going to get my chance.” Swiftly she came downstairs to him, her eyes shining. They elung together happily. Presently Harry told her what had happened. “ F unny thing,” he concluded ruminatively. “ Here I hated that guy George Lane, and yet he really gave me the idea.” Margery looked at her husband fondly. He would never know how deliberately she had dragged the stimulating scent of George Lane's success across his plodding trail. She smiled a twisted little smile. “ Yes, life is pretty funny,” she agreed. Harry said stoutly: “ I’ll bet five years from now you’ll be wearing clothes jthat’H make Edna Lane look like a scrubwoman. I guess that won't make ■ you mad—huh ? ”