"SECOND CHANCE"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 26 August 1940, Page 10

"SECOND CHANCE"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

HOLLOWAY HORN

(Author of “George,” "Two Men and Mary,” etc.

CHAPTER 11. tContinued). ( .“So are we all.” “I don’t mean like that. Ho speaks French, for one thing.” "That’s nothing.” “And he’s been in a position of authority. He’s not like an ordinary clerk. He wasn’t a clerk before he came to Mossford.” “Did he tell you?” ’No. He's told me nothing. That’s what I mean by being a gentleman. You ask him a question and he doesn’t answer —not as you would say answer —but he does it so politely that you don’t notice that what he has said boils down to inviting you to mind your own blinking business Damn it all, you can’t help being curious about a chap you've got to work with.” “Course you can’t. What's he got to hide?” -Search me,” said Maynard. “He’s drawing five ten.” i -So I heard. Young Cannock in the cashier's office told me, so I know its right.” "Mind you. he’s a good man. He s got old Goodspeed’s precious system taped up good and proper.” "Old Mumford as good as told me that it was up to us to see that he made good." Maynard said. "Why?” Maynard shrugged his shoulders: "He’s a pet lamb of William’s, I suppose. But it doesn't seem right to me that he should be getting more than I am.” "It isn’t right!” they agreed. "Looks to me as if he’s come down to stay. Old Mumford can't carry on much longer, and it looks to me as if your Mr Ferguson’s gbing to be boss here before any of us are a lot older.’

"I’d wondered that," Maynard admitted.

"But that doesn’t explain him. If he’d come from some big firm in London, why not say so? Why hide it? William Trevowe can do what he likes —within reason. But why all the secrecy?”.

“The queer part is that old Mumford doesn’t know any more about him than we do,” Maynard put in. “Well, mark my words," one of them said. "He's started in the Sales. 1 He’ll go from there to another department and sooner or later he’ll go to all of them. Then Mumford will go to his ‘well earned retirement’ —as the saying is—and wo shall all be calling this chap: ‘Sir.’ ” The curiosity Ferguson had caused was not limited to Maynard and his pals. John Rossiter —“Old” Rossiter as everyone in Trevowe’s called him —had been the film’s chief London traveller for many years. He was not often in Mossford but he happened to be there that Friday. And, as he usually did. he dined with Mr and Mrs Mumford. “Do you know a chap called Ferguson? John Fingal Ferguson?” Mumford asked his guest as they were drinking their final whisky and soda. “No.” “He wasn’t at the London office?" "No. I’m certain he wasn’t. Besides, you know he wasn’t.” "There are people there I don’t know and I thought he might be one of them."

"Why do you ask?" “He’s just turned up here. William sent him, himself." “What is he?”

“A clerk. William took up his references —or said he did. I know nothing whatever about him. A man about thirty-five or forty. Seems a very able fellow. I put him in the Sales Department.” “Then I hope to goodness that he is able. It’s about lime you had somebody intelligent there." Mr Mumford smiled; he had heard Old Rossiter on the Sales Department before.

“He’s a gentleman, a man of considerable education, and I should say he has been in a position of authority. Yet there’s something docile about him.”

“There’s always been something ‘docile’ about that durned Sales Department.”

‘jGoodspeed’s getting a bit past it, I know. But then so are many of us. We haven’t done badly, all things considered. But this chap Ferguson worries me. It's absurd that you should have a man in your office of whom you know absolutely nothing. It's so unlike William. Usually' he takes old colleagues like us into his confidence, just as his father did.” “He’s not the man his father was.” “Don't you believe it! You’ll be at the office in the morning?” “Of course. What do you think I came here for?” “The pleasure of seeing me!” “I might have a worse reason, old friend.” “Why not have a chat with him? You'll have a dozen grouches to work off on that Department anyway, if I know you." “I have and all!” said Old Rossiter. 'Believe mo or not. I sent an order through from Maybury’s of Reading “Then you ask Mr John Fingal Ferguson about it," smiled Mr Mumford, “and tell me afterwards what you think of him."

Nor was the curiosity limited to the male staff, for Mary Donovan was sitting alone in the. dining room of her aunt's house . . thinking. The wireless was turned on. but the wireless always was turned on in the evening in that room. Mary Donovan, however, had long accustomed herself not to listen if she didn't want to. Neither the Dance Music, the Talk, nor the Gramophone Records interfered with her thoughts, which, that evening, were of Ferguson. There was something sad in his lace, something disillusioned. There was a gentleness in him. some subtle thing she associated with people who had sutlered. She had heard most of what

Maynard had said to Mr Mumford about him, and her own observations had confirmed the verdict that he was a clever man.

What was he doing there as a clerk? Why had he taken a position which cut him off altogether from his old life —whatever and whereever that was?

Why did he volunteer no information about himself? Was he married?

She knew nothing whatever about him; she had no facts on which to base an opinion. Yet she had an opinion of him — which, if you come to think of it, was rather significant. She realised suddenly that she was alone in the room. She turned off the wireless and sat awhile by the fire. She still thought of the same man. Which, of course, was not quite so serious.

The following morning Old Rossiter breezed into the inner sanctum of the Sales Department. "Good morning. Mr Rossiter!" Maynard greeted him. "Morning. What about that order ’ from Maybtiry’s? What’s the good of 1 my getting orders if you can't get the [stuff off. to the date it’s ordered?” "I’m sorry. Mr Rossiter. But you [struck a line on which there’s been a very big run."

"Don’t I know it? Haven't I sold hundreds of that line? Didn't I tell you and the nitwits in the stock room to get stock up?" "By the way, let me introduce Mr Ferguson. Mr Ferguson, Mr Rossiter —our chief London traveller.”

“How do you do?” said Old Rossiter. “Hope to goodness you can liven this department up a bit.” Maynard winked at Feguson over Old Rossiter's shoulder.

“The goods were despatched to Reading yesterday by passenger train within a quarter of an hour of their getting here from the factory," Ferguson told him.

“You’re sure?” “Quite. We advised Messrs Maybury that they would be delivered today, and explained the delay.” “But I was there on Thursday!” “Possibly. They had the letter this morning, of course.” “Um . . it's not quite so bad as I thought it was, then.” Old Rossiter stumped into Mr Mumford’s office a few minutes later: “I've seen the mystery man!” he said. “Well?” “He’s a good chap!” “I'm very glad to hear it,” said Mr Mumford. So, too, was Mary Donovan, sitting demurely in front of her typewriter. CHAPTER 111. As the weeks went by, Fergqson found that it was easier to fit into the routine of the office than to adjust himself to the new life outside it. The weekends were rather wearisome. He had no friends, and a town like Mossford eaters more for the family than the individual. As far as the office was concerned he was confident. Mr Goodspeed had returned and taken over the control of the Sales Department. He proved to be a man open to receive ideas—and that is important, even if the ideas were passed on to the Powers that Be as Mr Goodspeed’s.. But Mr Mumford probably guessed whence the ideas had come. “By the way, Mumford, how’s Ferguson getting on?” Mr Trevowe asked at the end of a telephone conversation with the Mossford manager.

“Very well indeed, sir,” “Good! I'm pleased. I thought he would.”

This, of course, was not repeated to Ferguson, but he knew that ho was holding the job down. The way his colleagues treated him showed that, even if their attitude retained the curiosity and suspicion of the early days. But there were times between Saturday midday and Monday morning when Ferguson was consciously lonely and that is a very unsatisfactory state in any man. In London there are many distractions on which a lonely man fall back, many institutions where he is accepted without question. It is perhaps one of the few definite at.vantages life in London has over provincial life.

Mrs Gaddesden. who had apparentlv taken the lonely man to her heart, was often rather fussily anxious over his welfare, and there were times when he was very glad to have a chat with her. She was an intelligent woman and soon discovered that Ferguson had. no intention of telling anything about, himself. She was certainly not more curious than the majority of her sex, but she could not fail to notice that he had practically no correspondence of a pesonal character. “He doesn't have one letter a week,” she told Mary Donovan. "Seems to me that he has cut off the old life as it might be with a knife.” "He does have some?" Mary’ had asked.

"Very few and most of them are 'On His Majesty's Service!' ” "Still, his life is his own business, Auntie, and not ours.”

"Within reason. But nobody—man or woman—can shut themselves off from their kind. We aren't so much individuals as members of a family." “Anyway, he’s lucky to be here with you," said Mary’ Donovan.

"He might be worse off,” agreed Mrs Gaddesden. "You're very interested in him. my’ dear, aren't you?" “Not particularly,” the girl said. “I come into touch with him at the office and one can't help feeling that there's some secret in his life." "Aye." said Mrs Gaddesden and let it go at that. (To be Continued).