A Wasted Day - Richard Harding Davis

A Wasted Day

When its turn came, the private secretary, somewhat apologetically, laid the letter in front of the Wisest Man in Wall Street.
“From Mrs. Austin, probation officer, Court of General Sessions,” he explained. “Wants a letter about Spear. He’s been convicted of theft. Comes up for sentence Tuesday.”
“Spear?” repeated Arnold Thorndike.
“Young fellow, stenographer, used to do your letters last summer going in and out on the train.”
The great man nodded. “I remember. What about him?”
The habitual gloom of the private secretary was lightened by a grin.
“Went on the loose; had with him about five hundred dollars belonging to the firm; he’s with Isaacs & Sons now, shoe people on Sixth Avenue. Met a woman, and woke up without the money. The next morning he offered to make good, but Isaacs called in a policeman. When they looked into it, they found the boy had been drunk. They tried to withdraw the charge, but he’d been committed. Now, the probation officer is trying to get the judge to suspend sentence. A letter from you, sir, would—”
It was evident the mind of the great man was elsewhere. Young men who, drunk or sober, spent the firm’s money on women who disappeared before sunrise did not appeal to him. Another letter submitted that morning had come from his art agent in Europe. In Florence he had discovered the Correggio he had been sent to find. It was undoubtedly genuine, and he asked to be instructed by cable. The price was forty thousand dollars. With one eye closed, and the other keenly regarding the inkstand, Mr. Thorndike decided to pay the price; and with the facility of long practice dismissed the Correggio, and snapped his mind back to the present.
“Spear had a letter from us when he left, didn’t he?” he asked. “What he has developed into, SINCE he left us—” he shrugged his shoulders. The secretary withdrew the letter, and slipped another in its place.
“Homer Firth, the landscape man,” he chanted, “wants permission to use blue flint on the new road, with turf gutters, and to plant silver firs each side. Says it will run to about five thousand dollars a mile.”

Richard Harding Davis
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О книге

Язык

Английский

Год издания

2006-05-12

Темы

Fiction; Short stories

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