A note from Deller with five pencil sketches attached of the new trade figures for Brittlekin—two bloated looking children with inkblot eyes looking greedily at an enormous bar of peanut candy. “Dear Crowe: Will you give me copy on these as soon as possible—something snappy this time.—E. B. D.” A memorandum, “Mr. Piper called you 4 P.M. Monday. Wishes you to call him as soon as possible.” The United Steel Frame Pulley layouts and another note from Deller, “This is LATE. DO something.” Back to pulleys again and the crowded sweat-box of the copy room and twenty-five dollars a week with the raise gone glimmering now—
And Nancy is lost.
Oliver sits looking at the layouts for United Steel Frame Pulleys for half-an-hour without really doing anything but sharpen and resharpen a pencil. Mrs. Wimple wonders if he's sick—he ain't white or anything but he looks just like Poppa did the time he came back and told Momma, “Momma the bank has bust and our funds has went.” She watches him eagerly—gee, it'd be exciting if he fainted or did anything queer! He said he'd been in jail too—Mrs. Wimple shivers—but he's so comical you never can tell what he really means—that way he looks may be just what she saw in a movie once about “the pallid touch of the prison.” If it's indigestion, though, he ought to try Pepsolax—that certainly eases you up right—
Finally Oliver stacks all the layouts together in a careful pile and goes in to see Mr. Alley. That precise and toothy little sub-deity does not seem extremely enthusiastic over his return.
“Well, Mr. Crowe, so you got back? What detained you?”
“Police” says Oliver with a faint smile and Mr. Alley laughs dutifully enough though rather in a “here, here, we must get down to business” way. Then he fusses with his pencil a little.
“I'm glad you came in, Crowe. I wanted to see you about that matter. It is not so much that we begrudge—but in a place like this where everyone must work shoulder to shoulder—and purely as a point of office discipline—Mr. Vanamee is rather rigid in regard to that and your work so far has really hardly justified—”
“Oh that's all right, Mr. Alley” breaks in Oliver, though not rudely, he is much too fagged to be rude, “I'm leaving at the end of the week if it's convenient to you.”
“Well, really, Mr. Crowe.” But in spite of his diplomatic surprise he hardly seems distressfully perturbed. “I hope it is not because you feel we have treated you unfairly—” he begins again a little anxiously—under all his feathers of fussiness he is essentially kindly.
“Oh no, I'm just leaving.”