The generation which numbered Bryan Dalyrimple drifted out of
adolescence to a mighty fan-fare of trumpets. Bryan played the
star in an affair which included a Lewis gun and a nine-day romp
behind the retreating German lines, so luck triumphant or
sentiment rampant awarded him a row of medals and on his arrival
in the States he was told that he was second in importance only
to General Pershing and Sergeant York. This was a lot of fun.
The governor of his State, a stray congressman, and a citizens'
committee gave him enormous smiles and "By God, Sirs" on the
dock at Hoboken; there were newspaper reporters and
photographers who said "would you mind" and "if you could just";
and back in his home town there were old ladies, the rims of
whose eyes grew red as they talked to him, and girls who hadn't
remembered him so well since his father's business went blah! in
nineteen-twelve.
But when the shouting died he realized that for a month he had
been the house guest of the mayor, that he had only fourteen
dollars in the world and that "the name that will live forever
in the annals and legends of this State" was already living
there very quietly and obscurely.
One morning he lay late in bed and just outside his door he
heard the up-stairs maid talking to the cook. The up-stairs maid
said that Mrs. Hawkins, the mayor's wife, had been trying for a
week to hint Dalyrimple out of the house. He left at eleven
o'clock in intolerable confusion, asking that his trunk be sent
to Mrs. Beebe's boarding-house.
Dalyrimple was twenty-three and he had never worked. His father
had given him two years at the State University and passed away
about the time of his son's nine-day romp, leaving behind him
some mid-Victorian furniture and a thin packet of folded paper
that turned out to be grocery bills. Young Dalyrimple had very
keen gray eyes, a mind that delighted the army psychological
examiners, a trick of having read it--whatever it was--some time
before, and a cool hand in a hot situation. But these things did
not save him a final, unresigned sigh when he realized that he
had to go to work--right away.
It was early afternoon when he walked into the office of Theron
G. Macy, who owned the largest wholesale grocery house in town.
Plump, prosperous, wearing a pleasant but quite unhumorous
smile, Theron G. Macy greeted him warmly.
"Well--how do, Bryan? What's on your mind?"
To Dalyrimple, straining with his admission, his own words, when
they came, sounded like an Arab beggar's whine for alms.
"Why--this question of a job." ("This question of a job" seemed
somehow more clothed than just "a job.")
"A job?" An almost imperceptible breeze blew across Mr. Macy's
expression.
"You see, Mr. Macy," continued Dalyrimple, "I feel I'm wasting
time. I want to get started at something. I had several chances
about a month ago but they all seem to have--gone---"
"Let's see," interrupted Mr. Macy. "What were they?"
"Well, just at the first the governor said something about a
vacancy on his staff. I was sort of counting on that for a
while, but I hear he's given it to Allen Gregg, you know, son of
G. P. Gregg. He sort of forgot what he said to me--just talking,
I guess."
"You ought to push those things."
"Then there was that engineering expedition, but they decided
they'd have to have a man who knew hydraulics, so they couldn't
use me unless I paid my own way."
"You had just a year at the university?"
"Two. But I didn't take any science or mathematics. Well, the
day the battalion paraded, Mr. Peter Jordan said something about
a vacancy in his store. I went around there to-day and I found
he meant a sort of floor-walker--and then you said something one
day"--he paused and waited for the older man to take him up, but
noting only a minute wince continued--"about a position, so I
thought I'd come and see you."
"There was a position," confessed Mr. Macy reluctantly, "but
since then we've filled it." He cleared his throat again.
"You've waited quite a while."
"Yes, I suppose I did. Everybody told me there was no hurry--and
I'd had these various offers."
Mr. Macy delivered a paragraph on present-day opportunities
which Dalyrimple's mind completely skipped.
"Have you had any business experience?"
"I worked on a ranch two summers as a rider."
"Oh, well," Mr. Macy disparaged this neatly, and then continued:
"What do you think you're worth?"
"I don't know."
"Well, Bryan, I tell you, I'm willing to strain a point and give
you a chance."
Dalyrimple nodded.
"Your salary won't be much. You'll start by learning the stock.
Then you'll come in the office for a while. Then you'll go on
the road. When could you begin?"
"How about to-morrow?"
"All right. Report to Mr. Hanson in the stock-room. He'll start
you off."
He continued to regard Dalyrimple steadily until the latter,
realizing that the interview was over, rose awkwardly.
"Well, Mr. Macy, I'm certainly much obliged."
"That's all right. Glad to help you, Bryan."
After an irresolute moment, Dalyrimple found himself in the
hall. His forehead was covered with perspiration, and the room
had not been hot.
"Why the devil did I thank the son of a gun?" he muttered.
Read next: Dalyrimple Goes Wrong#Chapter III
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