Not get the job back? He sat down and stammered:
“Gee! I hadn’t thought of that. I’d kind of banked on the Souvenir Company, Mr. Guilfogle.”
“Well, you know I told you I thought you were an idiot to go. I warned you.”
He timidly agreed, mourning: “Yes, that so; I know you did. But uh—well—”
“Sorry, Wrenn. That’s the way it goes in business, though. If you will go beating it around—A rolling stone don’t gather any moss. Well, cheer up! Possibly there may be something doing in—”
“Tr-r-r-r-r-r-r,” said the telephone.
Mr. Guilfogle remarked into it: “Hello. Yes, it’s me. Well, who did you think it was? The cat? Yuh. Sure. No. Well, to-morrow, probably. All right. Good-by.”
Then he glanced at his watch and up at Mr. Wrenn impatiently.
“Say, Mr. Guilfogle, you say there’ll be—when will there be likely to be an opening?”
“Now, how can I tell, my boy? We’ll work you in if we can—you ain’t a bad clerk; or at least you wouldn’t be if you’d be a little more careful. By the way, of course you understand that if we try to work you in it’ll take lots of trouble, and we’ll expect you to not go flirting round with other firms, looking for a job. Understand that?”