“The point is that with the ‘Senator’ away (that was their jovial term for Matthew), we can’t really spare our other young man, can we? When Allenby went he assured us he was turning everything over to you to handle, and that you’d look out for us,” said old Mr. Cox, tilting his chair back and looking at Dick astutely.
“The more I look at the work there is to be done, the more I see that the machinery of distribution, which is here, is in such good shape that any one of three fellows in the office, whom I could mention, could look out for it. The big problem is the problem of production, and that needs to be investigated from the ground up—not on the basis of what things were ten years ago, or five years ago, or one year ago—but as they are now.”
“Let him do it,” said A. C. Miller, who spoke briefly.
“Some I. W. W.’ll put a bomb under him, and we can’t spare him.”
“Gentlemen,” said the chairman, with the ponderosity which had given him his position on so many boards, “may we have a motion?”
They were given a motion and Dick had his way. He heard the chairs scrape back, saw the discussion break up into fragments, saw the men go out, with their friendly, terse nods to each other and a wave of energy swept over him. Mare’s nest, chimera, windmills—whatever it was that he was going to find or to tilt with, at least he had a job that was fresh and that would take him out of town.
He scribbled on a telegraph blank, “Put it over all right,” and addressed it to Senator Matthew Allenby.
In his delight he wanted to do something for somebody, and his thoughts turned to Cecily.
He sought a florist’s again.
“Every morning,” he said, to the dapper young clerk who waited on him, “every morning I want you to make a selection of the flowers which you have which are suitable—suitable for the middle of a table, centerpiece, you know. Ever have an order like that?”