"How many men have been promoted over your head?"
"Three."
"Four," Wilbram corrected. "First was Miggins."
"I don't count him, sir. Him and I started together."
"Miggins was a failure. Then Farisell; now in prison. Next, McCardy;
he ran off to Simonds & Co. the minute they crooked a finger at him.
Last, young Prescott, who is now to come up here with his father.
Could you run the department if you had it?"
"Between you and I," replied Jacob Downey, sick, dizzy, trembling, "I been running the department these fifteen years."
"How'd you like to run it from now as manager? When I find a man with convictions and courage I advance him. The man who stands up is the man to sit down. That's evolution. If you could stand up to a big butcher like Myers and talk Dutch to him the way you did, I guess we need you at a desk. What do you say?"
A desk! A chance to rest his feet! Jacob Downey stiffened.
"Mr. Wilbram, I—I got to tell the truth. I never said those things to
Myers. I just walked out."
"But you said them. You acknowledge it."