“No one told me why I was fired,” said Martin indistinctly. “Will there be anything later?”
His condition seemed a little pitiable to Jackson, although, the employer told himself, such individualities really belonged outside the mathematical régime of commerce. One had to dispose of them accordingly.
“There will be nothing later,” he stated firmly. “You were inefficient. I can see no reason for returning you to this Company.”
“I want to work,” said Martin. “That’s the reason.” His fingers rubbed the top of the desk and he looked unsteadily at the man behind it.
Jackson arose.
“You’re drunk, Devaud,” he said. “It is not a question of personalities. Good-day.”
Martin gave him a perplexed look. The impeccable tailoring of his employer’s suit had suddenly become offensive to him. Completely bewildered by this strange revulsion, Martin turned and walked out of the room.
“Good-day,” he said, and went down the steps and out into the street. “Good-day,” he kept repeating into the ears of astonished passers-by. He stopped, after he had wandered awhile, before a restaurant; for he smelled the aroma of coffee. Then he shook his fist at the window.
“That won’t split this illness!” he said, and walked on, mumbling.
In his room he sat down once more on the edge of the bed. His mind, levitated by wine and discouragement, projected itself. Images rose before him. Secretive, luxurious women were in his fantasy. He drank again and went to bed. He slept, awakened, washed his face and slept once more, reality and the dream becoming as one. Day and night passed.