“This won’t get back to my nephew?” Tom waved his hand in deprecation. “You see, Mr. Rennard, I am afraid of conceit. Conceit spoils more careers than drink. My long experience has taught me that bright young men are what you might call perishable goods. I encourage them only so much. But in your confidence I am glad to tell you that I have great hopes of David Markand.”
Tom nodded seriously and held his silence. He knew this type of gentleman. Mr. Deane would presently go on. As he wandered further into the happy ways of his own conceits, he would be easier to manage.
“David has a good mind. He can work. He can apply himself. At first he was a little bewildered. He had a strange habit of asking my office manager a lot of foolish questions. I was afraid his mind was too much the wandering sort. But that’s over. That was mere strangeness here. I knew that. I could afford to smile at my manager’s worry. You see, Mr. Rennard, this is a personal organization. It’s a family. I know how my men are, and the women also. They don’t get into trouble in this business. We satisfy them: our kind hands are forever on them: no inducement to discontent or worry. And it pays. It’s a way of keeping your machinery in good repair. Why, just the other day, one of our warehouse truckmen....”
He forgot Tom. He prattled on. Tom saw he would have to stem him back at some convenient crossing. The War was broached.
“I think David has some idea of volunteering.”
He said this casually, and peered sharp at Mr. Deane: saw the shock on his face, and was relieved.
“Has he?” Mr. Deane’s flow of words belonged to a distant mood.
“Yes. You know David’s generous instincts.” Mr. Deane sat abruptly straight: he grasped a pencil, tapped the desk with it. “When he reads the general language of the Call he thinks it means him. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he tells you some fine morning that his business career is ended.... Well—and yet you know, Mr. Deane, there’s absolutely no such hurry.”
“Hurry!” the older man exploded. Straightway, he held himself down and was still.
Tom went on: “If the War lasts, why, then, of course....”