Once or twice a year, say, she would call him on the telephone at his office in the bank. Across the wire to him her eaten-out voice would come, hoarse and flattened—a hoarseness and a flatness which increased as the years rolled by.
“Jerry,” she would say, following almost a set pattern, “you know who this is, don’t you—Queenie?”
“Yes,” he would answer; “what can I do for you now?”
“Same as you done the last time,” she would say. “I’ve got a few more iron men tucked away and I’m looking for a little suggestion about a place to put ’em. And, Jerry, I hope you don’t mind my calling you up. There ain’t nobody else I could depend on like I can on you.”
She never told him, in dollars and cents, how much she had for investment nor did he ever ask. If inwardly he guessed at the possible total his guess did not run to large figures. But just as he might have done in the case of any individual seeking his counsel in this regard, he would recommend to her this or that bond or such-and-such standard stock, and she would repeat the name after him until she had memorized it and then she would thank him.
“I’m mighty much obliged to you, Jerry,” she would say. “I ain’t ever lost any money yet by following after your advice. It’s awful good of you, helping me out this way, and I appreciate it—I certainly do.”
“That’s all right, Queenie,” he would tell her, in his precise manner of speech. “I’m glad to be able to serve you. You are free to call on me—by telephone—whenever you care to.”
“I won’t never forget it,” she would reply. “Well, good-by, Jerry.”
It never happened more than twice a year, sometimes only once in a year as they—these years—kept on mounting up.