VI
I had my own ideas about office management. No private room for me! I sat out with all the others, in a little railed off pen. I contended that the moral effect of my being always visible, and always busy, was admirable. Graves, on the contrary, upheld the principle of remaining invisible and popping out suddenly.
I said that my department was a little democracy.
“And you were elected the head of it by popular vote, weren’t you?” inquired Graves, with irony. “Bet you wouldn’t be willing to put it to the vote now. All bunk! Humbug! You’re an autocrat, and so am I!”
I remembered this the next morning, when Miss Clare started to work for me, and I resolved to be a benevolent autocrat. The poor girl had lost her triumphant air. She was crestfallen, anxious, apprehensive.
“I’ll let her see that I have confidence in her,” I thought.
I gave her some letters to answer herself, without my dictating. They certainly were not letters of importance. In fact, it would make small difference to the business whether they were ever answered or not.
Hypocritically, I told myself I ought to keep an eye on her. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t have helped it, because she was the most incredibly lovely creature.
Her concentration was distressing. I felt inclined to tell her that the letters weren’t worth all her trouble—that no letters could be. She was very nervous. I saw her put sheet after sheet into the typewriter, only to take it out and crumple it up.
Naturally, she knew our excessive dislike for paper being wasted; and after a while I saw her stealthily stuffing those crumpled sheets into a drawer, where they wouldn’t be noticed. Then, suddenly, she straightened her shoulders, gave a despairing glance round the office, pulled all the paper out of the drawer, and put it into the wastebasket. It was a small thing, but it touched me. Whenever I looked at her, and saw that incriminating mass in the basket beside her, in full light of day, I mentally saluted her as an honorable soul.
There had come in the morning mail a letter from a rather doubtful customer, inclosing a check for his last bill and a new order. I felt pretty sure he was ordering a bit more than the traffic would stand, yet he seemed to have substantial backing, and it wouldn’t do to risk offending him. It was Saturday, and I had meant to talk the thing over with Mr. Reddiman before putting through the order on Monday, when a telegram came:
Ship goods to-day. Wire, if impossible, and cancel order.
This was very awkward. We were somewhat overstocked just then, and not par[Pg 88]ticularly busy, so that it would have been easy enough to ship the stuff; but I was reluctant to take the responsibility. At the same time I didn’t want to cancel an order of that size.
There wasn’t much time for thought. I sent for my assistant. I told him to take the check down to the bank it was drawn on and get it cashed. I also suggested his seeing the manager.
“What bank is it?” he asked.
“I don’t remember,” said I; “but you’ll see by the check.”
And then I couldn’t find the check. It was nearly eleven already, and there wasn’t a minute to waste. I turned over every paper on my desk; I made every one else do the same. Check and letter were absolutely gone.
Nothing like this had ever happened before during my régime. I couldn’t believe it. Now that it’s well in the past, I will admit that perhaps I didn’t take it very tranquilly; but, after all, it was not soothing, when I knew some one must be to blame, to have people make idiotic suggestions about my looking in my pocket. Was I in the habit of putting the mail into my pocket?
“The thing’s going to be found,” said I, “and found now. Empty the wastebaskets, and see if it’s been thrown away by mistake.”
The office boy appeared to enjoy doing this, but the rest of them failed in loyalty. No one looked worried or distressed.
“It’s sure to turn up,” said one.
Another almost suggested that such a letter had never existed.
Attracted by the excitement, Miss Kelly appeared, followed by others who had no business to come. How cool and reasonable they all were!
“Mercy!” observed Miss Kelly. “What a quantity of paper thrown away!”
She spoke, of course, of the contents of poor Miss Clare’s basket, now turned out upon a newspaper. She approached it, and picked up one or two sheets.
“It seems to me scarcely justifiable to waste a sheet merely for writing ‘Dear Bir,’” said she, “or a wrong figure in the date. Errors like that can easily be—is this the missing letter, by any chance?”
It was the letter, and the check as well, torn into fragments.
“Oh, I didn’t know!” cried Miss Clare. “I’m so awfully sorry! I must have taken it by accident and torn it up with—with some other things. I’m so sorry!”
But my exasperation was too great to be melted even by tears in those incomparable eyes.
“You ought to be sorry!” I said, and so on.
No use recounting the rest of my bad-tempered outburst. I paid for it later in very genuine regret.