“Maybe he wants to make money and get rich,” suggested Wingfield.
“And maybe—maybe,” replied Walsh contemptuously, “he wants to buy airships so he can call on the man in the moon. I don’t know what it is, but the signs point to trouble.”
Walsh took off his hat and caressed his bald head. Then he threw up a section of his glass cage that looked out upon the street and bade a truck driver stop beating his horses. He dominated his establishment like the captain of a ship, his office serving as a bridge. A clear tenor voice, singing a ballad, rose from the wareroom below. Walsh touched a button and when the chief shipping-clerk appeared bade him discharge the singer at once.
“Chuck him! I warned him myself I wouldn’t stand for it.”
“I hope it’s the one that guyed my clothes as I came up,” said Wingfield. “My spats seemed to pain him; he was painting things with a brush.”
“He’s the one,” growled Walsh. “I’ll let his voice rest for a week and then I’m going to put him on the road. He’s the likeliest colt on the place.”
“Fire him first, then promote him?” asked Wingfield.
“Yep. But I don’t make a fixed rule of takin’ ’em back. Fired the office boy last week and he’ll stay fired—hung a couple of these ‘Get Busy,’ ‘Keep on smiling,’ signs over my desk. Well, where’s Wayne now?” he demanded.
“He went to his office this morning after breakfasting with me and didn’t show up at the Club for lunch—he’ll probably be there for dinner—there’s nobody at home, you know. The Colonel took his bride to Boston to hear him deliver his oration.”
“Mrs. Craighill went to Boston?”