"SECOND CHANCE"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 12 September 1940, Page 10

"SECOND CHANCE"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

HOLLOWAY HORN

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

CHAPTER XI.

Ferguson knew London well—the greater part of his life had been spent there—but during the days which followed his return from Mossford, he extended his knowledge considerably. He visited parts of the great city which had been merely names to him before —Haggerston, Stepney and a dozen others —in his search of that most elusive thing—a job for a man who really wants one. The positions for which by training, experience and ability he was suited were just the jobs which called for unimpeachable references. Once, in a moment of depression, he told a prospective employer the truth. He was the Managing Director of a firm of manufacturers and wholesale dealers in furniture in the East End. “You seem to be the type we want,” the Managing Director said. “Who have you been with?” “For the last few months I’ve been with Trevowe’s, Ltd., in Mossford.” “For the last few months?” the Managing Director repeated, with slightly raised eyebrows. “Yes. Prior to that I was in prison.” The Managing Director' was sitting very upright in his swivel chair: “Prison?” he echoed. “Yes. It’s a long story. You may remember the Murray Bothers case? Rather more than three years ago.” “Yes. But look here . . .” “It’s all right. I’ll go,” said Ferguson rising. “Only I’ve got a little tired of coming up against the eternal question of references.” “I’m sorry, of course,” the Managing Director —a decent little fellow said earnestly. "If the business were my own I’d take a chance. I would really. But in the circumstances I daren’t. There’s my fellow directors to consider, for one thing.” “Thanks, anyway.” “Up against it?” “Not quite . . thanks. I shall be all right.” “I’m sorry, but I daren’t do it on my own. Anyway, better luck!” “Thanks,” Ferguson said as he left the office. The reaction of the Managing Director surprised him. Fie had seemed genuinely distressed and sympathetic. After his meagre lunch, Ferguson read the letter he had that morning received from Mary Donovan. A smile touched his lips as he read it and he went out into the London street with renewed courage. And a search for a job by a man with Ferguson’s record and sensitiveness needs courage of a rare order. The end of the first week came, however, with nothing in sight. On the Sunday afternoon he went to the Marble Arch to listen to .the “orators.” It was mildly amusing, and it had the added attraction of costing nothing. On the outskirts of one of the “meetings” a man spoke to him. “If it isn’t Mr Hallett! How are you, sir?” /

Ferguson glanced at the man suspiciously but recognised him: it was Rossiter, the hall-porter in the Cosmos Club, of which he had been a member before the crash. “Fairish, thanks. It’s Rossiter, isn’t it?” “Yes, sir. I’ve got several letters in my cupboard for you. I. . I didnt’ send them on.” /Quite,” smiled Ferguson. '“We were all very sorry, sir,” Rossiter said awkwardly. “The other stewards, I mean. There was a lot of talk about it in the servants’ hall. Most of us—certainly me —thought you was very hard done by, sir.” “That’s very kind of you, Rossiter. At the moment I’m staying at 17 Percy Street, Tottenham Court Road.” “I’ll write it down, sir. and send on those letters at once.” “Thanks very much." “A lot of old members have gone, sir. You’d hardly know the place.” “It’s a long time.” “Three years,” said Rossiter, reminiscently. He produced a note book and wrote down the address Ferguson had given him. “Send those letters on, won’t you? Goodbye!” Ferguson turned away and was quickly lost in the crowd.

Very decent of Rossiter to bother, he decided.

On the Monday evening three letters arrived. Evidently Rossiter had posted 1 them as soon as he went on duty that morning. One was from a firm that wanted to buy and sell stocks for him; the second was an advertisement of a firm which wanted to do his typewriting and the third contained an offer to provide him with lounge or dress suits at preferential rates. Ferguson laughed when he opened the third letter. Still, it was very good of Rossiter to have bothered.

But with the letters from the Club came one from Mary Donovan. She had evidently posted it on her way to the office that morning. Sitting on the end of the bed in that dingy little bedroom, he read and reread the letter. It heartened him, put strength into him. Moreover, she was coming to town by excursion train on the following Sunday and ho was lo meet her at St Pancras at a quarterpast twelve. They could have seven whole hours together! He sat a while holding the letter in his hand.

If it were in any way possible lie must have news for her by Sunday. He must. Il was wicked Jhat such faith should be unrewarded.! Whether he deserved a break or not, there was no question that Mary Donovan did. Later in the evening he went into the public library in Holborn and searched the advertisement columns of the evening papers. He made a list of likely ones to call on in the morning. He did call, but if the job was a possible one and the firm reputable, the question of references inevitably cropped up. “Why do you insist on references?” he asked an employer. "In America

they just tell a suitable man to start in.” "Not for a job like this they don’t—not off the films, anyway,” the employer replied. “But why can’t you give the usual references? To your last employer for example?” “I can. I was with Trevowe’s Ltd., of Mossford, for a few months.” “And before then?” “I haven’t any. But cant you do without them?” “I would, if it were my job. But I'm responsible to my directors, and I m not prepared to take a chance on a man who can’t give the usual references. You’ve applied for a position of trust and responsibility —not to carry sandwich boards. I’m sorry but that’s all there is to it.” He pressed a bell as he was speaking and as Ferguson went out he said: •■Next,” to the office boy who had answered it. Ferguson could see the other fellow’s point of view, but it didn’t help him. There is probably no more exhausting or depressing job than going from office to office in reply to advertisements offering jobs and a man must possess exceptional courage not to lost faith in himself. Curiously, perhaps, although Ferguson had met with no success, he had met with very little actual dicourtesy. And none whatever from a person in responsibility where he had managed to establish contact with them. Later in the afternoon, he got a job —of sorts. He had seen the advertisement in an early edition of one of the evening papers. ' "Men of Education and good address wanted to represent up-to-date firm of publishers,” the announcement stated. It was not the kind of job he was looking for but the address was only a few minutes away from where he had bought the paper. Whatever' happened, he wouldn’t be late for this one. No. Thirty-three Vallance Street, proved to be a block of modern offices and the firm he sought occupied the whole of the second floor. “Wait in the first room on the left,” the girl in “Enquiries” told him. Two other men were already there and a third came in while he was waiting. The others may have been “well educated and of good address," but they didn’t look it, and apparently the Hebraic gentleman who opened the door and surveyed the assembly some minutes later thought so too,' for he pointed to Ferguson and said: "Come this way.” . Ferguson was third, but it was no time to stand on ceremony and he followed the Hebraic one along,., the corridor to his office. “Sit down. What’s your name?” "John Ferguson.” “Ferguson. Scotch, isn’t it?”' . “Yes.” “My name’s Scotch, too," the other said. “I'm the staff-supervisor. What experience have you had in salesmanship?” “None. But I want a job pretty badly.” "We’re publishers. But we sell direct to the public. No shops. We publish things like these ...” He made an expansive gesture to a bookcase before he continued: “See? Complete editions of Scott, Dickens and the classics. They sell like hot cakes to people like schoolmasters and parsons. Deferred payments. All you do is to get the order; we do the rest. That’s our best liner-the Empire Encyclopaedia. Twelve volumes published at ten guineas. You get ten per cent. A guinea for everj' ordei' you gef, see? One of our men sold eleven sets last week as well as other stuff he got rid of. See?” "I’ll try it,” said Ferguson. “Do I have a special locality to work in?” “No. You go anywhere you like. No limit to your earnings. The more we pay the better pleased we are. You got to deposit a pound to cover the value of the samples. Returnable, of course, if you turn the job in. .What about it?” “I’ll have a shot at it.” “We don’t always insist on the deposit. You seem a decent sort of chap. You see the idea? That’s a dummy set. Open it out . . so . . and it shows what the set of books looks like in a bookcase. See? That’s a sample book. You get three different ones. See? Better to concentrate on the Empire Encyclopaedia. See? We provide a bag. It all fits in very nice and it isn’t heavy." “Right-ho.” “Here’s the order forms and addressed envelopes. You come in Saturday morning, ten o’clock, to draw what’s due. Good luck!” “You don’t want references?” Ferguson asked. “No. I rely on my own judgment of a man. You needn't bother about the deposit, either.” “Thank you. Whatever happens, I shall return the bag and the samples." “Just fill in that form, then, will you?” The form required h s is name and address and that of his previous empoyers and having shaken the large, and rather moist hand of Mr McKissoch, Ferguson sallied forth into Vallence Street carrying a brown bag made of a substance that closely resembled leather. It wasn't heavy but he gripped it tightly. The whole thing seemed unreal and it was not until he got back to his room in Percy Street that he realised how little the job really amounted to. No wages: no expenses. ion per cent on sales . . if any. In the seclusion of his room he examined the samples carefully. They were got up very attractively and inside the dummy covers the reason why all and sundry should subscribe to the particular edition of the particular; author were cunningly set forth. | (To be Continued).