“Oh, I guess Mr. Rockervelt is as foxy as they make ’em. I don’t suppose he’s lost anything over this shake-up, and perhaps he thought it was a good time to squeeze a little of the dampness out of the stock. I expect a very rapid recovery. The country is prosperous, and from the way things look this last hour or two we’ve been going through a little squall, but not entering upon a financial crisis.”
“That’s a blessing,” said John with a sigh; “still, the squall has upset my canoe, even if the big liners ride through it. Good-bye.”
Once outside, instead of feeling depressed, as he had expected, John experienced an unaccountable thrill of elation. The disaster was complete; complete beyond recall; complete in spite of anything he did or did not do. The very finality of the catastrophe seemed to lift a weight that had been oppressing him for a night and a day. He remembered that he had had practically no dinner the evening before, and no breakfast that morning, and now a fierce and healthy hunger which seemed to have been biding its time sprang upon him. A glance at his watch showed that it was nearly two o’clock. He walked rapidly to the University Club, noted for its excellent cuisine, and wrote on an order card the menu of a sumptuous meal. A deferential servitor approached silently to his elbow.
“Mr. Steele, No. 1623 wants you on the telephone.”
“All right, ring him up, and tell him I’ll be there in a moment, and if he is impatient, inform him I am at present engaged on the important choice between camembert and brie.”
Sending his order upstairs, he went into the little telephone cabin. He knew the number meant the general manager’s office.
“Hello, is that you, Blair?—Yes, this is Steele.—What’s that?—Oh, no, now that you mention it, I haven’t been there last night or this morning. How’s the old road running?—What? It isn’t doing so well outside.—Oh, if it comes to that, I’ve been general manager and division superintendent for the past week, so surely you can act Pooh Bah for a day. To tell the truth, it seemed to me that a road whose stock was falling so rapidly wasn’t worth general managering or division superintending.—Levity? Bless you, no! I’m the most serious man in town.—Oh, I’m sorry you think my remarks flippant. Have you had lunch? I’ve just ordered a meal for a millionaire; come down and have a bite with me.—Oh, had it, eh? You’re an early bird. I’ve ordered a late bird grilled upstairs. Sure you won’t drop round, and have a cup of coffee and a liqueur?—Yes, I see, you’re quite right. Somebody must attend to business.—Well, I’ll drop round on you at four o’clock. Good-bye.”
John Steele allowed himself a good hour and three-quarters for his luncheon, then he strolled down to the Grand Union Station, and, exactly as the big bell in the tower tolled four he walked into the general manager’s room.
Mr. Blair was seated at his broad table, and as he looked up his chubby face was a study in various emotions. Superficially it wore the conventional, official frown which a great man may call to his aid when a subordinate’s conduct has been such as to merit disapproval. The severity of the frown, however, was chastened by the expression of the just man, who, although righteously offended, is nevertheless prepared to listen to an explanation, and perhaps accept an apology. The lips were prepared to censure, or even, in a last resort, to condemn, although, if the case merited leniency, one would not be surprised to hear them admonish and advise. It was the face of a simple and honest man, willing to forgive, yet not afraid to punish.
The eyes, however, rather gave the situation away. In them twinkled triumph and glee, and lurking in their depths was a background of malice and hatred.