His committee made representations to the Commercial Club, and for a time they were certain that the chief reporter of the Frontiersman was going to support them, “as soon as he could get his editor over being scared of a row.” But Martin’s belligerency was weakened by shame, for he never had enough money to meet his bills, and he was not used to dodging irate grocers, receiving dunning letters, standing at the door arguing with impertinent bill-collectors. He, who had been a city dignitary a few days before, had to endure, “Come on now, you pay up, you dead beat, or I’ll get a cop!” When the shame had grown to terror, Dr. Bissex suddenly reduced his salary another two hundred dollars.
Martin stormed into the mayor’s office to have it out, and found F. X. Jordan sitting with Pugh. It was evident that they both knew of the second reduction and considered it an excellent joke.
He reassembled his committee. “I’m going to take this into the courts,” he raged.
“Fine,” said Father Costello; and Rabbi Rovine: “Jenkins, that radical lawyer, would handle the case free.”
The wise banker observed, “You haven’t got anything to take into the courts till they discharge you without cause. Bissex has a legal right to reduce your salary all he wants to. The city regulations don’t fix the salary for anybody except the Director and the inspectors. You haven’t a thing to say.”
With a melodramatic flourish Martin protested, “And I suppose I haven’t a thing to say if they wreck the Department!”
“Not a thing, if the city doesn’t care.”
“Well, I care! I’ll starve before I’ll resign!”
“You’ll starve if you don’t resign, and your wife, too. Now here’s my plan,” said the banker. “You go into private practise here— I’ll finance your getting an office and so on—and when the time comes, maybe in five or ten years from now, we’ll all get together again and have you put in as full Director.”
“Ten years of waiting—in Nautilus? Nope. I’m licked. I’m a complete failure—at thirty-two! I’ll resign. I’ll wander on,” said Martin.