Out of the Air

by Inez Haynes Gillmore

“We are looking for a clever woman whom we can specially train in the methods of our somewhat peculiar business. If you qualify, we shall advance you to a superior position.”

That “superior position” had fallen into her hand like a ripe peach. Within a week, Mr. Warner had called her into the private office for a long business talk.

“Miss Ayer,” he said, “you seem to be making good. I am going to tell you frankly that if you continue to meet our requirements, we shall continue to advance you and pay you accordingly. You see, our business—” Mr. Warner’s voice always swelled a little when he said “our business”—“our business involves a great deal of letter-writing to women investors and some personal interviews. Now we believe—both Mr. Byan and I—that women investing money like to deal with one of their own sex. We have been looking for just the right woman. A candidate for the position must have tact, understanding, and clearness of written expression. We have been trying to find such a woman; and frankly, the search has been difficult. You know how war work—quite rightly, of course—has monopolized the able women of the country. We have tried out half a dozen girls; but the less said about them the better. For two weeks we will let you try your hand at correspondence with women investors. If your work is satisfactory, it means a permanent job at twice your present salary.”

Her work had pleased them! It had pleased them instantly. But oh, how she had worked to please them and to continue to please! Every letter she sent out—and after explaining the Carbonado Company and its attractions, Mr. Warner let her compose all the letters to women—was a study in condensed and graceful expression. At the end of the fortnight Mr. Warner engaged her permanently. He went even further. He said:

“Miss Ayer, we’re going to make you manager of our women’s department; and we’re going to put your name with ours on the letterhead of the new office stationery.” When the day came that she first signed herself “Susannah Ayer, Manager Women’s Department,” she felt as though all the fairy tales she ever read had come true.

Susannah, as she was assured again and again, continued to give satisfaction. No wonder; for she liked her job. The work interested her so much that she always longed to get to the office in the morning, almost hated to leave it at night. It was a pleasant office, bright and spacious. Everything was new, even to the capacious waste basket. Her big, shiny mahogany desk stood close to the window. And from that window she surveyed the colorful, brick-and-stone West Side of Manhattan, the Hudson, and the city-spotted, town-dotted stretches beyond. The clouds hung close; sometimes their white and silver argosies seemed to besiege her. Once, she almost thought the new moon would bounce through her window. Snow noiselessly, winds tumultuously, assailed her; but she sat as impervious as though in an enchanted tower. Gray days made only a suaver magic, thunderstorms a madder enchantment, about her eyrie.

The human surroundings were just as pleasant. Though the Carbonado Company worked only with selected clients, though they transacted most of their business by mail, there were many visitors—some customers; others, apparently, merely friends of Mr. Warner, Mr. Byan, and Mr. O’Hearn—who dropped in of afternoons to chat a while. Pleasant, jolly men most of these. Snatches of their talk, usually enigmatic, floated to her across the tops of the partitions; it gave the office an exciting atmosphere of something doing. And then—it happened that Susannah’s way of life had brought her into contact with but few men—everything was so manny.

She stood a little in awe of H. Withington Warner, president and general manager. Mr. Warner was middle-aged and iron-gray. That last adjective perfectly described him—iron-gray. Everything about him was gray; his straight, thick hair; his clear, incisive eyes; even his colorless skin. And his personality had a quality of iron. There was about him a fascinating element of duality. Sometimes he seemed to Susannah a little like a clergyman. And sometimes he made her think of an actor. This histrionic aspect, she decided, was due to his hair, a bit long; to his features, floridly classic; to his manner, frequently courtly; to his voice, occasionally oratorical. This, however, showed only in his lighter moments. Much of the time, of course, he was merely brisk and businesslike. Whatever his tone, it carried you along. To Susannah, he was always charming.

If she stood a little in awe of H. Withington Warner, she made up by feeling on terms of the utmost equality with Michael O’Hearn, secretary and treasurer of the Carbonado Mining Company. Mr. O’Hearn—the others called him “Mike”—was a little Irishman. He had a short stumpy figure and a short stumpy face. Moreover, he looked as though someone had delivered him a denting blow in the middle of his profile. From this indentation jutted in one direction his long, protuberant, rounded forehead; peaked in another his upturned nose. The rest of him was sandy hair and sandy complexion, and an agreeable pair of long-lashed Irish eyes. He was the wit of the office, keeping everyone in constant good temper. Susannah felt very friendly toward Mr. O’Hearn. This was strange, because he rarely spoke to her. But somehow, for all that, he had the gift of seeming friendly. Susannah trusted him as she trusted Mr. Warner, though in a different way.