"I am tired of being a clerk," he said. "I'm going to be a director in this company."
"I guess you're going to be an inmate of a lunatic asylum," Mr. Blatchford remarked, with astonished cheerfulness.
"That seems as unlikely to me as the other thing does to you," said Crombie.
Hereupon Mr. Blatchford became sarcastically deferential. "And just about when do you propose to become a director?" he asked.
"In the course of a month. The election, I believe, takes place in December."
"Quite right," said his senior, whose urbanity was meant to be crushing. "Meanwhile, you will need leisure to attend to this little matter. Suppose I oblige you by saying that the company has no further need of your services?"
"Suppose you do. What then?"
Mr. Blatchford gave way to his anger. "What then? Why, then you would have to go; that's all. You would be thrown out of employment. You would have to live on your principal, as long as there was any; and afterward you would be obliged to find some other work, or beg, or borrow, or—"
"That's enough," said Crombie, rising with dignity.
"No, it isn't," the treasurer declared, "for you don't seem to understand even now. I discharge you, Mr. Crombie, on the company's behalf, and you may leave this office at once."