"I don't catch on."

"It's just as easy to play with dollars as with dimes—just as easy to write an order for a thousand as for ten. And it's easier to do business with big men. They're more imaginative, quicker to grasp."

"That's how they got there," Honey interjected.

"But particularly, Honey, these men are all keen students of human nature. They can size a man up—gee! 'Brown's able,' says one. 'Yes, but he's tricky,' says another. 'Carpenter's honest, but he's a fool.' With the 'gold bugs' credit is a combination of honesty and ability."

Skinner sipped his demi-tasse reflectively.

"Honey, you remember what Russell Sage said in reply to Horace Greeley's, 'Go West, young man!' No? Well, this is what he said: 'If you want to make money, go where the money is.' I 've begun to go where the money is. See the connection?"

"I'm glad you have," said Honey, nodding her head. "Those clerks you used to travel with never thought big thoughts or they would n't have been clerks."

"But remember, Honey, I'm only a clerk."

"But you never did belong in the clerk class."

"You're right! I never did! I'm beginning to realize it now. Why, do you know,"—leaning over the table and counting off his words with his finger,—"I've had ideas that if I 'd only been able to carry out, ideas that I got right in that little cage of mine—"

Thus Skinner's education progressed. He took as enthusiastic a delight in studying the "gold bugs" as a naturalist would in some very ancient, but recently discovered, insect.

"I 'm finding out lots of good things in that Pullman Club, Honey," said Skinner a week later at the dinner table. "Every one of these 'gold bugs' has something under his skin. They may be Dick Turpins and Claude Duvals and Sam Basses, their methods of getting things may not be ideal, but you can't beat their methods of giving. They've all got lovable qualities. They do a lot of things that show it—and they don't use a brass band accompaniment either."

"For instance?" said Honey, simply and sweetly.

"Well," said Skinner, "take old John Mackensie. He's so close that they say his grandfather was the man who chased the last Jew out of Aberdeen."

Skinner picked up the paper.

"See those initials, honey? 'D. C. D.'"

"I've noticed them."

"Old Mackensie, when he was a boy, came near starving to death. A reporter got hold of his case and printed a paragraph about it just like those you see every day. I got it on the quiet. Mackensie was saved by an anonymous friend who signed himself 'D. C. D.' He never could find out who it was. Several years passed. He watched the papers, but these initials never appeared again. So Mackensie concluded that his unknown savior was dead.

"But he made up his mind to pass the good deed along and here's the romance of it. He wants whoever it was that helped him to get all the credit for it. He wants him to be reminded—if he happens to be alive and 'broke'—that the good thought started is being pushed along. So to-day a newspaper tells a story of an unfortunate girl—a starving boy picked up by the police—a helpless widow—a friendless old man. The next day you read, 'Rec'd from D. C. D. $20.'—'D. C. D. $50'—as the case may be. That's old man Mackensie."

"And yet they say money kills romance." Honey's eyes shone with appreciation.

"And there's Solon Wright," Skinner went on, "another 'gold bug.' For years every night he has handed a dollar to a certain shambling fellow outside the ferry gate."

"How curious!"

"Briscom told me about it. The strange thing is, it's a man Wright used to detest when he was flush. He does n't like him even now. That's why he gives him the money. Moral discipline, the way he puts it. Can you beat it?"

As a result of these observations in the Pullman, Skinner jotted down in his little book:—

Dress-Suit Account

Debit Credit

Interesting discovery of generally unsuspected facts in the habits of "gold bugs."

While Skinner was sailing over a fair sea, untroubled by anything but the growing fear that some day Honey might find him out,—about the "raise,"—storm clouds were gathering in a wholly unsuspected quarter.

"I saw our Skinner getting out of the Pullman this morning," said Perkins to the senior partner.

"What of it?" said McLaughlin.

"I see him getting out of it every morning."

"Still what of it?" persisted McLaughlin. "The Pullman habit isn't expensive—only a quarter from Meadeville."

"Oh, nothing," observed Perkins. "Nothing in itself, but new clothes and traveling round in a Pullman don't square with the fact that Skinner did n't get his raise."

McLaughlin swung around in his chair. "Say, Perk, what do you mean by these hints? You never did like Skinner."

"You're mistaken, Mac. It was his clothes I did n't like."

"You've been throwing out hints," McLaughlin reiterated, "and bothering me so much lately about Skinner, I wish to goodness I had raised his salary."

"I know," Perkins persisted, "but see what our Skinner's habits have been in the past—penurious. Why the sudden change? You know just as well as I do that a clerk can't travel around with the rich."

"Why not? The man's been saving money for years—got a bank account. All these little things we've noticed you could cover with a few hundred dollars. Come, Perk, out with it! Just what do you mean?"

"It's only a suggestion, Mac, not even a hint—but Pullman cars are great hot-beds for hatching all kinds of financial schemes. That's where you get your Wall Street tips—that's where they grow."

McLaughlin looked serious. He drummed on his desk with the paper-cutter and waited.

"Tips are very good when they go right," Perkins went on, "but when they go wrong—" He hesitated.

"I get you. They're dangerous to a man who is employed in a fiduciary capacity," said McLaughlin very quietly.

"I believe as you do," urged Perkins, "that Skinner is the most honest and loyal man in America—but other honest and loyal men—well, darn it, they're all human."

"Well?" McLaughlin observed, and waited.

"It's a part of wisdom to be cautious. It's just as much for his good as it is for ours. An ounce of prevention, you know. Besides, it's our money he's handling."

"You may be right," said McLaughlin, rising. "But go slow—wait a little. I'll keep my eye on the Meadeville end of it for a while."

Skinner not only "listened" himself into the affections of Stephen Colby, but into the affections of other members of the "gold-bug" set as well. He won his way more with his ears than with his tongue. He'd only been a member of the Pullman contingent a fortnight when he and Honey were invited to dine with the Howard Hemingways. There they met all the vicarious members of the Pullman Club—the wives.

The Hemingway dinner was an open sesame to the Skinners. The ladies of the "walled-in" element began to take Honey up. They called on her. She was made a member of the bridge club.

It cost Honey something to learn the game,—some small money losses,—but these were never charged to the dress-suit account, for a very obvious reason.

So popular did the Skinners become that it was seldom they dined at home. Skinner, methodical man that he was, put down in his little book to the credit of the dress-suit account, not the value of the dinner they got, but what they'd actually saved on each occasion. And he began to feel that the dress suit was earning good interest in cash on the investment.

The Skinners, now that they had engaged in active social life, learned one valuable lesson, which was something of an eye-opener to them both. They found that they had constantly to be on dress parade, as it were, and that in the manners of the social devotee, no less than in his clothes, there can be no letdown. Also, they found that, on occasions, their dining out cost them more in the wear and tear on their patience than a dinner at home would have cost them in cash. For instance, when they returned from the Brewsters' dinner one night. Skinner jotted down in his little book:—

Dress-Suit Account

Debit Credit

Never again!

One bad evening!

When you go to the Brewsters, you've got to talk all the time about their prodigy son who writes plays.

Anything else bores them, and if you do talk about him, you 're bored.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't! It's a draw, and a draw is a waste of time!

"Well, Perk," said McLaughlin one morning, "I've got an interesting bit for you. The Skinners are doing the society stunt: bridge and that sort of thing."

"That's not enough to convict."

"They're splurging. They're buying rugs and pictures!"

As a matter of fact, Honey had bought one modest rug and one modest picture to fill up certain bare spaces over against the meeting of the bridge club at her house, and being a good manager she could make any purchase "show off" to the limit. But the Skinners' ice man in detailing the thing to the McLaughlins' maid had assiduously applied the multiplication table.

McLaughlin paused.

"Well," said Perkins, "what do you make of it?"

"He's getting too big for his breeches."

"Well?" said Perkins.

"I hate to do it," said McLaughlin, "but—"

"Well?" said Perkins.

"Don't stand there saying 'well,' Perk. Help me out."

"What are you going to do about it, Mac?"

"Did you notice him this morning? He looks as worried as the devil!" McLaughlin drummed on his desk with the paper-cutter. "Perk, we've got to do something—and we've got to do it sudden."

McLaughlin turned. "Come in!" he shouted.

The boy entered and handed the senior partner a card.

"Send him in." He turned to Perkins. "It's Billings. Just you think this over to-night, Perk."

"Hello, Billings."



CHAPTER VIII

CHICKENS COMING HOME TO ROOST

Skinner did look worried, but what ailed him was very foreign to the cause that McLaughlin and Perkins suspected. He was worrying about his diminishing bank account. But it was n't the actual diminution of funds that worried him so much—he was afraid Honey would find him out.

For a long time this fear had haunted him. Like a wasp, it had buzzed constantly about his ears, threatening to sting him at any moment. It had become a veritable obsession, a mean, haunting, appetite-destroying, sleep-banishing obsession.

There were many ways in which this fear might be realized. For instance, Honey had told him that she was thinking of studying finance so as to find out all the little leakages and help them save, and that she was going to ask Mr. Waldron, the teller of the Meadeville National, to instruct her in the intricacies of banking.

What inadvertent remark might not that functionary drop and thus sow suspicion in Honey? At first, Skinner had thought of warning the teller not to discuss these things with Honey. But he made up his mind that that might direct Waldron's attention to their account and lead him to suspect something from the new process of circulation which Skinner had set going when he promoted himself. No—better let sleeping dogs lie in that direction. Instead, Skinner persuaded Honey that it would be an imposition on Mr. Waldron, take up too much of his time. He, Skinner, would give her what instruction she needed.

The more the "cage man" schemed to keep his wife from finding out the deception he'd practiced on her, the more possibilities of exposure developed, and the more apprehensive he became.

No sooner did Honey promise not to bother Mr. Waldron than another danger popped up. By Jingo! There was Mrs. McLaughlin! Honey might again mention to her something about his raise, reiterate what she had hinted at on the night of the First Presbyterian reception. No doubt, if she did, Mrs. McLaughlin would quiz her this time, find out what she was driving at, and report it to McLaughlin and make him, Skinner, a laughing-stock in the eyes of the boss. Then, by a series of recoils, McLaughlin would deny it to his wife, Mrs. McLaughlin would deny it to Honey, and there'd be the devil to pay. And paying the devil, in this particular instance, Skinner apprehended, would be a hard proposition.

Instigated by this fear, ever since the night of the First Presbyterian affair Skinner had schemed to keep Mrs. McLaughlin and Honey apart. It was easy enough at first, when they were only invited to a few affairs, but with the enlargement of their social horizon the danger loomed bigger.

Skinner knew enough about women not to warn Honey against talking confidentially with Mrs. McLaughlin, since this would excite her suspicions and recoil upon him, Skinner, with a shower of inconvenient questions. The only thing he could do, then, was to see to it that he and Honey should avoid places where the McLaughlins were liable to be. Skinner had been put to all sorts of devices to find out if the McLaughlins were going to certain parties to which he and Honey had been invited. He could n't do this very well by discussing the thing with the boss. So he had endeavored to determine the exact social status of the McLaughlins in that community and avoid the stratum in which they might circulate.

But this rule had failed him once or twice, for in communities of the description of Meadeville social life was more or less democratic and nondescript. When he had thought himself secure on certain occasions, he had bumped right into the McLaughlins and then it behooved him to stick pretty close to Honey all the evening.

This was not what he counted on, for Skinner was beginning to enjoy the sweets of broader social intercourse. He was beginning to like to talk with and dance with other women.

At times, when Skinner had received information at the last moment that the McLaughlins were to be at a party, he had affected a headache. On one of these occasions, Honey had set her heart on going and told Skinner that the Lewises had offered to take her along with them in case he should be delayed at the office—for Skinner had even pretended once or twice to be thus delayed. Presto! at Honey's words about the Lewises, Dearie's headache had disappeared.

Skinner thought with a humorous chuckle how Honey had said, "Dearie, I believe you're jealous of Tom Lewis."

"Perhaps I am," the miserable Skinner had admitted.

Skinner pictured the effect of exposure in all sorts of dramatic ways. But not once did he see himself suffering—only Honey. That's what worried him. He could bear pain without flinching, but he could not bear seeing other persons bear pain—particularly Honey. He knew he could throw himself on her mercy and confess and that she would forgive him because she'd know he did it on her account. But the hurt, the real hurt, would be hers to bear—and Skinner loved Honey.

Whenever Skinner had felt apprehensive or blue because of his self-promotion and the consequent difficulties he found himself plunged into, he had looked at his little book, and the credit side of the dress-suit account had always cheered him. But this infallible method was not infallible to-night. Going out on the train Skinner had the "blues" and "had them good." Gloom was closing in on all sides; he could n't tell why, unless the growing fear of exposure to Honey was taking hold on his subconsciousness and manifesting itself in chronic, indefinite apprehension.

At Meadeville, he purposely avoided Black, his next-door neighbor, with whom he customarily walked home from the depot—for Skinner was not the man to inflict an uncordial condition upon an innocent person.

When Skinner reached home, Honey drew him gently into the dining-room and pointed to the table. As she began, "Look, Dearie, oysters, and later—beefsteak! Think of it! Beefsteak!"—the now familiar formula that had come to portend some new extravagance,—Dearie stopped her.

"Don't, Honey, don't tell me what you've got for dinner, course by course. Give me the whole thing at once, or give me a series of surprises as dinner develops."

"I think you're horrid to stop me," Honey pouted reproachfully. "If I tell you what I 've got, you'll enjoy it twice as much—once in anticipation, once in realization."

"But what does this wonderful layout portend or promise?"

"To do good is a privilege, is n't it?"

"Granted."

"Then it's a promise," was Honey's cryptic answer.

Honey had certain little obstinacies, one of which was a way of teasing Dearie by making him wait when he wanted to know a thing. It was no use—Skinner could n't budge her.

"I'll wait," said he.

But all the circumstances pointed to the probability of a new "touch," which did not add greatly to his appetite.

After his demi-tasse, Skinner said to Honey, "Come, Honey, spring it."

"Not till you 've got your cigar. I want you to be perfectly comfortable."

Skinner lighted up, leaned back in his chair, and affected—so far as he was able—the appearance of indulgent nonchalance.

"Shoot."

Honey leaned her elbows on the table, rested her chin in the little basket formed by her interlacing fingers, and looked at Dearie in a way that she knew to be particularly engaging and effective.

"I 've always wanted to do a certain thing," she began. "You have always been my first concern, but now—I want to do something very personal—very much for my own pleasure. Will you promise to let me do it?"

"You bet I will," said Skinner; "nothing's too good for you!"

Skinner was genuinely and enthusiastically generous. Also, it would be a good scheme to indulge Honey, since he might have to ask her indulgence later on.

"I had a letter from mother this morning."

"Indeed?" There was little warmth in Skinner's tone. "I suppose she spoke pleasantly, not to say flatteringly, of me."

"Now, Dearie, don't talk that way. I know mother is perfectly unreasonable about you."

"She came darned near making me lose you. That's the only thing I've got against her."

"She has n't really anything against you—she only thinks she has," observed Honey.

"The only thing she's got against me is that she acted contrary to my advice and lost her money. She's hated me ever since!"

"It is wrong of her, but we 're not any of us infallible. Besides, she's my mother—and I can't help worrying about her."

"Why worry?"

"The interest on her mortgage comes due and she can't pay it."

"If she'd only listened to me and not taken the advice of that scalawag brother-in-law of yours, she would n't have any mortgage to pay interest on."

"She only got a thousand dollars. At five per cent, that's fifty dollars a year."

Skinner swallowed hard to keep down the savage impulse that threatened to manifest itself in profanity whenever he thought of Honey's mother and his weakling brother-in-law.

"Honey," he said grimly, "does your mother in that letter ask you to help her out with that interest?"

Honey lifted her head proudly. "She does n't ask me anything. She does n't have to. She only tells me about it."

"Yes, she does n't have to."

"You know I 've always wanted to do something for her, and I've never been able to. I'm ashamed to neglect her now, when we're living so well and dressing so well—and you have your raise. It's only a dollar a week."

"Have you any more relatives who have a speculative tendency?" Skinner began with chill dignity.

"Now, Dearie!" Honey began to cry and Skinner got up from the table and went over and kissed her.

She had married him against mother's advice and had stood by him like a brick, and he'd do anything for her. He stroked her glossy hair. "You have always wanted to do something for her, have n't you? You're a good girl! Do it! Send her a dollar a week!"

Skinner resumed his place at the table. This was the climax, he thought, the ne plus ultra of it all! He was to contribute a dollar a week to his mother-in-law to make up a loss caused by the advice of a detested, silly-ass brother-in-law, who had always hated him, Skinner. Surely, the dress-suit account had reached the debt limit! He took out his little book and jotted down:—

Dress-Suit Account

Debit Credit

One important lesson! Never take the first false step! It's apt to lead, one knows not whither!

"You don't know how happy you've made me," said Honey, "and I 'm so proud of you—such strength of character—just like old Solon Wright, you're doing this for one you positively dislike, Dearie!—moral discipline!"

"Moral discipline, your grandmother!" snapped Skinner; then softly, "I'm doing it for one I love."

"I would n't have mentioned it if you hadn't got your raise. You know that!"

His raise! Skinner thought much about "his" raise as he lay in bed that night. Had he gone too far to back out, he wondered? By Jove, if he did n't back out, his fast-diminishing bank account would back him out! The thing would work automatically. Probably in his whole life Skinner had never suffered so much disgust. Think of it! He must go on paying mother-in-law a dollar a week forever and ever, amen! No, he'd be hanged if he'd do it! He'd tell Honey the whole thing in the morning and throw himself on her mercy. The resolution gave him relief and he went to asleep.

But he did n't tell Honey in the morning. He was afraid to hurt her. He thought of his resolution of the night. It's so easy to make conscience-mollifying resolves in the night when darkness and silence make cowards of us. No, he could n't tell her now. He'd tell her when he got home to dinner.

Meantime, things were doing in the private office of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc.

"I've thought it over this far, Perk," said McLaughlin.

"Well?"

"Understand, I believe in Skinner absolutely—but—"

"Even your judgment is not infallible, you mean?"

"Exactly."

"So do I believe in him," Perkins said.

"I couldn't offend him for the world," McLaughlin went on. "He's as sensitive as a cat's tail. I would n't even dare to go into that cage of his." McLaughlin paused, "Yet we've got to do something. We can't wait till summer when he goes on his vacation. All kinds of things might happen before then. Time and Wall Street don't wait for anybody—except magnates!"

"You mean, have an expert accountant go over his books?" said Perkins.

"Certainly, that's what I mean—that's what you mean—that's what's been in both our minds from the time he began to travel with that Pullman crowd."

"It ought to be done at once," said Perkins. "If things are not regular—well, we must protect ourselves. I'm puzzled how to get rid of him while we're doing it. It's a delicate business," Perkins urged.

"I've got that all figured out, Perk." McLaughlin paused to register the comedy line that was to follow. "I'm going to send Skinner to St. Paul—after Willard Jackson!"

The partners were silent for a few moments; then Perkins said, "You can't, Mac."

"Why not?"

"It's a joke!"

"Of course it's a joke! But it's a harmless joke. You and I are the only ones that are 'on.' Skinner won't suspect. We'll put it up to him in dead earnest."

"The worst Jackson can do is to insult him the way he did you," said Perkins.

"The old dog!" said McLaughlin. He paused. "We'll get Skinner out of his cage for a while. It'll cost us so much money—we'll add that on to the expert accountant's bill. Can you think of a better way, Perk?"

"Mac, you're a genius!"

McLaughlin pressed the button marked "cashier."

Perkins put out his hand. "Don't call him yet, Mac. Wait till I get through laughing."

McLaughlin turned as the "cage man" entered.

"Hello, Skinner. Sit down." He paused a moment to register his next words. "Skinner, Mr. Perkins and I want you to do something for us."

Skinner looked from one partner to the other. "Yes," he said quietly.

"Two years ago we lost the biggest customer we ever had," McLaughlin proceeded.

"I know. Willard Jackson—St. Paul."

"Lost him through the stupidity of Briggs," snapped McLaughlin.

Skinner nodded.

"We've been trying to get him back ever since, as you know. We sent our silver-tongued Browning out there. No good! Then Mr. Perkins went out. Then I went out. All this you know."

The "cage man" nodded.

McLaughlin paused. "Skinner, we want you to go out to St. Paul and get him back."

Skinner looked curiously from one partner to the other, but both seemed to be dead serious.

"But—I'm—I'm not a salesman," the "cage man" stammered.

"That's just it," said McLaughlin earnestly. "There must be something wrong with the policy or the method or the manners of our salesmen, and Mr. Perkins and I have thought about it till we're stale. We want to put a fresh mind on the job."

"Jackson's gone over to the Starr-Bacon folks. They do well by him. How am I going to pry him loose?" said Skinner.

"We'll do even better by him," said McLaughlin. "You know this business as well as I do, Skinner. I 'm darned if I don't think you know it better. You know how closely we can shave figures with our competitors, I don't care who they are. I 'm going to make you our minister plenipotentiary. Do as you please, only get Jackson. I don't care if you take a small loss. We can make it up later. But we want his business."

Skinner pondered a moment. "Really, Mr. McLaughlin, I don't know what to say. I'm very grateful to you for such confidence. I 'll do my best, sir."

"It'll take rare diplomacy, rare diplomacy, Skinner," McLaughlin warned.

"What kind of a man is Mr. Jackson?" Skinner asked presently. "I know him by his letters, but what kind of man is he to meet?"

"The worst curmudgeon west of Pittsburg," said McLaughlin. "He'll insult you, he'll abuse you, he might even threaten to assault you like he did me. But he's got a bank roll as big as Vesuvius—and you know what his business means to us. Take as much time as you like, spend as much money as you like, Skinner,—don't stint yourself,—but get Jackson!"

"Have you any suggestions?" said Skinner.

"Not one—and if I had, I would n't offer it. I want you to use your wits in your own way, unhampered, unencumbered. It's up to you."

"When do you want me to go?"

"Business is business—the sooner the quicker!"

Skinner thought a moment. "Let's see—to-morrow's Sunday. I'll start Monday morning, if that is satisfactory."

"Fine!" said McLaughlin, rising and shaking hands with his cashier.

Skinner walked to the door, paused, then came halfway back. "What kind of a woman is Mrs. Jackson, Mr. McLaughlin?"

"Well," said McLaughlin, staggered by the question, "she don't handsome much and she ain't very young, if that's what you mean."

Skinner blushed. "I didn't mean it that way."

"The only thing I've got against Mrs. Jackson is she's a social climber," Perkins broke in.

"The only thing I 've got against her," said McLaughlin, "is—she don't climb. She wants to, but she don't."

"Is there any particular reason why she does n't climb?" said Skinner.

"Vulgar—ostentatiously vulgar," said McLaughlin.

Skinner smiled. He pondered a moment, then ventured, "Say, Mr. McLaughlin, it'd be a big feather in my cap if I landed Jackson, wouldn't it?"

"One of the ostrich variety, my son,—seeing that the great auk is dead," said McLaughlin solemnly.

Skinner's voice faltered a bit. "You don't know, Mr. McLaughlin, and you, Mr. Perkins, how grateful I am for this opportunity. I—I—" He turned and left the room.

"It's pathetic, ain't it? I feel like a sneak, Perk," said McLaughlin.

"Pathetic, yes," said Perkins. "But it's for his good. If he's all right, we're vindicating him—if he is n't all right, we want to know it."

The "cage man" whistled softly to himself as he reflected that the awful day of confessing to Honey was deferred for an indefinite period. It was a respite. But what gave him profound satisfaction was the fact that McLaughlin and Perkins were beginning to realize that he could do something besides stand in a cage and count money. They had made him their plenipotentiary, McLaughlin said. Gad! That meant full power! By jingo! He kept on whistling, which was significant, for Skinner rarely whistled.

And for the first time in his career, when he smelt burning wood pulp and looked down at the line of messenger boys with a ready-made frown and caught the eyes of Mickey, the "littlest," smiling impudently at him, Skinner smiled back.

For the rest of the day, as Skinner sat in his cage, three things kept running through his head: he's a curmudgeon; she's a climber; and she doesn't climb. From these three things the "cage man" subconsciously evolved a proposition:—

Three persons would go to St. Paul, named in order of their importance: First, Skinner's dress suit; second, Honey; and third, Skinner.



CHAPTER IX

SKINNER FISHES WITH A DIPLOMATIC HOOK

The first step in the scheme which Skinner had evolved for the reclamation of Willard Jackson, of St. Paul, Minnesota, was to be taken Sunday morning, after services, at the First Presbyterian Church of Meadeville, New Jersey.

Skinner had not told Honey he was going to take her on his trip West. He would do that after church, if a certain important detail of his plan did not miscarry. Although he paid respectful attention to the sermon, Skinner's thoughts were at work on something not religious, and he was relieved when the doxology was finished and the blessing asked. Unlike most of the others present, Skinner was in no hurry to leave. Instead, he loitered in the aisle until Mrs. Stephen Colby overtook him on her way down from one of the front pews.

"Why, Mr. Skinner, this is a surprise," exclaimed the social arbiter. Then slyly, "There's some hope for you yet."

"I thought I'd come in and make my peace before embarking on a railroad journey," Skinner observed.

"Going away? Not for long, I hope."

"St. Paul. I'm not carrying a message from the Ephesians—just a business trip."

"St. Paul's very interesting."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"You've never been there?"

"No."

"Goodness—I know it well."

"What bothers me is, I'm afraid Mrs. Skinner 'll find it dull. I'm taking her along. You see, I 'll have lots to do, but she does n't know anybody out there."

The social arbiter pondered a moment. "But she should know somebody. Would you mind if I gave her a letter to Mrs. J. Matthews Wilkinson? Very old friend of mine and very dear. You'll find her charming. Something of a bore on family. Her great-grandfather was a kind of land baron out that way."

"It's mighty good of you to do that for Mrs. Skinner."

"Bless you, I'm doing it for you, too. You have n't forgotten that you're a devilish good dancer and you don't chatter all the time?" Then, after a pause, "I'm wishing a good thing on the Wilkinsons, too,"—confidentially,—"for I don't mind telling you I've found Mrs. Skinner perfectly delightful. She's a positive joy to me."

"You're all right, Mrs. Colby."

"That's the talk. Yes, I'm coming along." She waved her hand to Stephen Colby. "When do you go?"

"To-morrow morning."

"I'll send the letter over this afternoon—and if you don't mind, I 'll wire the Wilkinsons that you're coming on."

Skinner impulsively caught her hand. "Mrs. Colby, you're the best fellow I ever met!"

When the letter arrived at the Skinner's house that afternoon, Honey knitted her brows.

"I don't understand it."

"You ought to. It's for you."

"Dearie," said Honey, rising, her eyes brimming, "you mean to say that I'm going to St. Paul with you?"

"Don't have to say it. Is n't that letter enough?"

"Dearie, you're the most wonderful man I ever saw. Think of it!—a letter from Mrs. Colby! I'll bet those Wilkinsons are swells!"

"They breathe the Colby stratum of the atmosphere. It's a special stratum, designed and created for that select class."

"It's quite intoxicating."

"Special brands usually are."

"I thought those Western cities did n't have classes."

"My dear, blood is n't a matter of geography. There's not a village in the United States that does n't have its classes. The more loudly they brag of their democracy, the greater the distance from the top to the bottom."

As Skinner said this, he jotted down in his little book:—

Dress-Suit Account

Debit Credit

One "open sesame" to the smartest set west of the Alleghanies!

and Honey clapped her hands.

And as he put Mrs. Colby's letter in his inside pocket, Skinner muttered to himself, "A climber, but does n't climb. She'll climb for this all right!"

The Skinners reached St. Paul Tuesday night and registered at The Hotel. When he had deposited Honey in the suite which had been reserved by wire for them, Skinner proceeded to execute the next step in his scheme for the reclamation of Willard Jackson. He returned to the desk.

"I wish," he said to the chief clerk, "that you 'd see to it that a paragraph regarding my arrival is put in the morning papers, just a little more than mere mention among hotel arrivals"—he took pen and paper and wrote—"something like this: 'William Manning Skinner, of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., New York, reached town last evening and is stopping at The Hotel.' There's a lot of people here I want to see, but I might overlook 'em in the rush of business. If they know I'm here, they'll come to see me."

"Very good, Mr. Skinner," said the clerk. "I'll see to it."

Skinner paused a moment. "By Jove, I've almost forgotten the principal thing." He added a few words to the copy. "Put that in, too, please. Can you read it? See: 'Mrs. Skinner, daughter of the late Archibald Rutherford, of Hastings-on-the-Hudson, accompanies her husband.' That's just to please her."



"'Rutherford'—'Hastings-on-the-Hudson'—swagger name," commented the clerk.

Skinner smiled at the clerk's comment. If it impressed this dapper, matter-of-fact, know-everybody man-of-affairs that way, how much more would it appeal to Mrs. Curmudgeon W. Jackson's social nose. Veritably, it augured well for his scheme.

But he only said, "It reads a devilish sight better than plain Skinner, does n't it?"

"Well," said the clerk, trying to be consoling and diplomatic and failing in both, "you must n't always judge a man by his name."

After breakfast next morning Skinner and Honey remained in their rooms, waiting for the message that was to come from the Wilkinsons, for Skinner had reckoned that any friend of the Colbys would receive prompt attention.

"She'll call you up, Honey, and ask us to dine to-night. There, there, don't ask any questions. I've figured it all out. But we're engaged until Saturday."

"Engaged every night? Why, Dearie, this is only Wednesday. You had n't told me anything about it."

"Quite right," said Skinner, "I had not."

"What are we going to do?"

"I have no plans. I suppose we'll sit in our rooms or go to the theater."

"Well," said Honey, "it beats me."

On reading the morning paper, Mrs. J. Matthews Wilkinson said to her husband, "They're here—the Skinners—Jennie Colby's friends, you know. We must have them to dinner."

"When?" said Wilkinson, looking up from his paper.

"I dare say they'll be here but a short time. Better make it to-night."

"You're the doctor," said Wilkinson, resuming his paper.

"We'll send out a hurry call for the Armitages and the Bairds and the Wendells," said Mrs. Wilkinson, mentally running over her list of the most select of St. Paul's inner circle. "We'll show these people that we're not barbarians out here."

"Can you corral all those folks for to-night? Is n't it rather sudden, my dear?"

"I've dined with them on shorter notice than that, just to accommodate them. I 'll call up the Skinners right away."

Honey answered the 'phone. Of course they'd be delighted to dine at the Wilkinsons, but every night was filled up to Saturday. A pause. Hold Saturday for them? She should say they would.

There was another pause. Then Honey clapped her hand over the receiver and turned to Skinner.

"Can we take a spin with them this afternoon, Dearie?"

"You bet. We've nothing else to do."

"You fraud," said Honey, when she had hung up the receiver, "you said you had engagements."

"I tried to convey to you," observed Skinner, somewhat loftily, "that we couldn't dine at the Wilkinsons' before Saturday. That covers it, I think."

According to Skinner's plans, the dinner at the Wilkinsons' was to be the big, climactic drive at the fortress of Willard Jackson's stubbornness.

As Skinner had reckoned, Mrs. Curmudgeon W. Jackson nosed out the paragraph in the morning paper, first thing.

"Who is this Mr. Skinner, Willard? Do you know him?"

"What Skinner?"

"William Manning Skinner."

"Never heard of him."

"He's of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc.,—your old friends."

Jackson pricked up his ears.

"What's he doing here? Does it say?"

"No."

"I know," said Jackson shrewdly. "He's out here after me." He chuckled. "They've been sending emissaries to get me back ever since I quit 'em. Even the partners came out, one at a time. That shows what they think of my trade."

"Skinner's got his wife with him."

"I don't blame him. It's a devilish mean business going on the road without some one to look after you." Jackson paused. "But he can't disguise his fine Italian hand that way. I know those fellows."

"She's some swell," said Mrs. Jackson. "Daughter of the late Archibald Rutherford, of Hastings-on-the-Hudson."

"That don't mean anything. The way they write it makes it look aristocratic. Rutherford!—he might have been a butcher! And Hastings-on-the-Hudson! Well, they have butchers there as well as Astors!"

"Mebbe you're right."

"I'll bet you a new dress Skinner'll be after me to-day," said Jackson, folding his newspaper and preparing to leave for his office. "Trust your Uncle Dudley here—I know."

The very first words that greeted Jackson that night when he reached home were, "I get the dress, don't I?"

"How do you know?"

"Skinner didn't get after you to-day. Look!"

Mrs. Jackson held up the evening paper and read aloud. "'A belated honeymoon—that's what we're here for more than anything else,' said Mr. William Manning Skinner, of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., of New York, to a reporter this afternoon. The Skinners had just returned from a spin over beyond Minneapolis with the J. Matthews Wilkinsons—"

"The devil you say!" said Jackson, reaching over and taking the paper. "Aw!" He chucked the paper aside. "That don't establish their social status any more than living in Hastings-on-the-Hudson or being a Rutherford. It don't amount to anything. It's just business. Fellows like Wilkinson, when some outsider is n't quite good enough socially and they want to swell his head without committing themselves, take him in their car or to the club. In that way they save their business faces without sacrificing their social faces. I know," he growled.

"But how did he get in with the Wilkinsons? They have n't any business."

"Wilkinson is in all sorts of things that nobody knows of but himself." He glanced over the sub-caption. "Skinner sees no difference socially between the St. Paul and the New York people. Puts St. Paul first," he observed, "thanks for that." He read further. "'But the Western people are more frankly hospitable'!"

"Moonshine! Moonshine!" he commented. "Hospitality ain't a matter of location. You'll find generous people and devilish mean people, no matter where you go. That's soft soap. It reads well—but—I know."

"It don't look as if he'd have much time for you, Willard."

"He ain't through yet," said Jackson, lighting a stogie. "I'll bet you another dress that to-morrow—"

"Taken!"

Mrs. Jackson turned again to the paper.

"That girl knows how to dress, all right!"

But it was n't Honey's dress that stirred Mrs. Jackson's soul to the depths. These Skinners were hand in glove with the inaccessible Wilkinsons, and—the devil take it—Jackson was no longer a customer of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc.

Skinner read the evening paper with great satisfaction. The inky seed disseminated through the press was, he felt, bound to take strong root in the fertile consciousness of Mrs. Curmudgeon W. Jackson, and therefrom was sure to react effectively upon the decidedly active consciousness of Jackson himself.

With this end in view, as per plan of campaign for the reclamation of Willard Jackson, Skinner had had himself interviewed on a subject dear and flattering to the Middle West, especially flattering to St. Paul. He had written his "first impressions of St. Paul" on the way out from New York, and had permitted the same to be extracted by the reporters—with great cunning—from his modest and reluctant self. Honey was present—designedly present—while the young newspaper men were quizzing Skinner, dressed in her very latest, which was carefully noted and described in the interview, for decorative purposes.

"We just looked in en passant," Skinner observed to the reporters, using his French to the limit. "It's a kind of belated honeymoon. We've seen Mr. Hill's residence and we ran over and looked at those wonderful flour mills in Minneapolis, your neighbor"— He paused.

A frozen atmosphere seemed suddenly to enshroud the reporters. Their pencils ceased to record.

"Oh, yes, let's get back to St. Paul."

Instantly the temperature rose about a hundred degrees, and the reporters' pencils began to move again.

When the newspaper men were gone, Skinner jotted down:—

Dress-Suit Account

Debit Credit

Useful hint! When you're in St. Paul, talk about St. Paul!

And when he read his interview in the evening paper, Skinner made this entry:—

Dress-Suit Account

Debit Credit

A certain remarkable authority in discussing social matters which I never thought I possessed. In fact, which I never did possess until I got the dress suit.

The Skinners devoted the days between Wednesday and Saturday to loafing or sight-seeing, principally the former. They drove over to Minneapolis again and took in the wonderful flour mills, for anything that pertained to machinery fascinated Skinner. Then they went out to the Lake and had a trout dinner and all the rest of it. But after a time, this unaccountably useless routine got on Honey's nerves.

"Dearie," she protested, "this is our honeymoon, to be sure, but don't you think you ought to get after business?"

"Don't worry. Business will get after us pretty soon."

"But time is flying."

"Time is doing just what I want it to do. It takes time for plans to develop. It takes time for seed to grow. I started business getting after us Sunday morning at the First Presbyterian Church in Meadeville. I prepared some of the seed on the way out here. I began sowing the evening we arrived. I fanned the flame with a big puff,"—he held up the paper with the interview in it. "Jingo, that's funny. I did n't mean it literally."

"Your metaphors are fearfully mixed, Dearie."

"Does n't matter. They're graphic."

"But they're not clear to me."

"They are to me, which is enough," said Skinner, with a suggestion of finality.

Honey pouted reproachfully at the snub, and Skinner's heart instantly smote him.

"Don't worry, Honey. It's all right." He paused. "Now, I'm going to make a prophecy." He pointed impressively at her with his forefinger. "And you mark my words! Things will begin to happen right after the Wilkinson dinner."

"That's Sunday morning."

"Things have happened on Sunday," observed Skinner quietly.

"When do you expect to start for home?"

"I 'm not sure, but I 'm counting strongly on Tuesday morning."

While the Skinners were talking, something pertaining to the same business was developing in another part of the city.

"Do I get another dress?" Mrs. Jackson asked as the famous curmudgeon entered the dining-room Thursday evening.

"You do," he growled. "I'll be hanged if I understand it."

"It's too bad," Mrs. Jackson began.

The curmudgeon held up his finger. "Stop right where you are. I know what you're going to say." He growled out the accustomed formula: "'You'd give me dresses all day long and diamonds and a magnificent house, but you don't give me what is dearest in the world. I want to go with the people I 'm fit to go with!' In the future, just to save time, cross your fingers and I'll know you mean formula number two."

"But Mr. Skinner," Mrs. Jackson persisted.

The curmudgeon cut her short. "What's Skinner got to do with it?"

"Got to do with it? Why, he's a regular missing link!"

"Missing link?" Jackson looked at her in surprise. "Have you seen him?"

"I don't mean that—I mean connecting link."

"Some difference," Jackson grunted.

"If you hadn't gone and broken with McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc."

"That's enough. It's too late now. I don't want to hear anything more about it."

Mrs. Jackson said nothing. She knew that silence at such a time was her most effective weapon. Jackson waited for her to speak, but as she did not speak he immediately felt sorry that he'd been short with her. She was the only person in the world he really cared for. But he must show no outward sign of weakness, so he repeated, "It's too late now, I tell you!"

But, being a resourceful man, Jackson never considered anything too late. He would never take defeat for granted until he should be in his coffin. As a matter of fact, he had often regretted that he had broken with McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc. If it had n't been for that fresh salesman, Briggs, he never would have. And after he had broken with them, his stupid obstinacy had stood in the way of resuming friendly relations, for McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., had always delivered the goods.



CHAPTER X

SKINNER LANDS A CURMUDGEON

With his head full of these reflections but without any definite method to accomplish a rather indefinite purpose, Jackson strolled into the lobby of The Hotel the next morning.

"Who is this Skinner that was interviewed?" he asked the chief clerk, whom he had known for a long time.

Glibly the clerk recounted to Jackson all he knew about their guest, who had suddenly become illustrious through the magic touch of the J. Matthews Wilkinsons.

"Point him out to me," said Jackson. "I always like to look over these Eastern guys that know so much that ain't so about us Middle West people."

"The Skinners don't get down to breakfast before ten," said the clerk.

An hour later Jackson strolled in casually and took a chair opposite the desk. Here was an opportunity for the clerk, an opportunity which Jackson had arranged for him without his knowing it. He passed around from behind the desk and intercepted Skinner as he and Honey were about to step into the elevator.

"Mr. Skinner," he said, "I'd like you to meet one of our prominent citizens." He led Skinner over to where the curmudgeon was sitting. "Mr. Skinner, I want you to shake hands with Mr. Willard Jackson."

"How do you do, Mr. Skinner?" said Jackson, rather reservedly; for now that the game was going the way he had designed it should go, he wanted to make it appear that the clerk, and not he, had taken the initiative.

"I'm very glad to meet you, Mr. Jackson," said Skinner, with his accustomed cordiality.

"I saw your little squib in the paper," said Jackson. "You must belong to the Boost Club."

"It never does any harm to tell pleasant truths," said Skinner.

Presently Jackson remarked, "You're with McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., I see."

"You know them?"

"Why, yes. I'm Willard Jackson."

"Oh, yes," laughed Skinner, "how stupid of me. Of course I know. Certainly I know." He caught Jackson's coat and drew him over and added confidentially, "I'm a little bit abstracted. You see, this is a kind of junketing expedition. Just what they said in the paper—a belated honeymoon. I've never had a chance before, and I'm devoting my whole time to giving the wife a good time." He pulled out his watch. "Say, you'll excuse me. We've got a date."

"Of course," said Jackson.

Skinner grasped Jackson's hand cordially. "Say, won't you run in again and have a chat? I'm awfully glad to have met you."

"Well, I'll be jiggered," said Jackson to himself as he left The Hotel. Anyhow, he reflected, as he walked downtown to his office, he'd taken the first step, he'd broken the ice. It had gone against the grain to do it, but it was entirely on the wife's account. He'd let Skinner take the next step. He'd be darned if he would.

But as usual in social matters, the woman's domain entirely, the man in the case reckoned without his host!

For two whole days Jackson waited in his office for Skinner to appear—waited in vain. He dreaded going home to dinner, dreaded formula number two. Each night he half determined to 'phone some excuse and dine at the club, but put the suggestion aside as petty, shirking. However, nothing was said at dinner by the good Mrs. Curmudgeon, and Jackson began to feel that the incident was closed.

If only the departure, the sudden departure, of Skinner would be as conspicuously recorded as his advent had been, what a relief it would be. Nothing further appeared in the papers about Skinner, however, and Jackson was flattering himself that that gentleman had folded his tent like the Arab. A great calm prevailed in the heart of Jackson. But this proved to be only a weather-breeder.

Sunday morning when Jackson entered the breakfast room, he found his wife in tears. "Look," she cried, holding up the paper and pointing to the great headline.

"What's the matter? Some accident? Somebody dead?"

"I should say not! Somebody's very much alive! We're the dead ones!"

Jackson took the paper from her hand and read: "Important Social Event. The West dines the East. Mr. and Mrs. J. Matthews Wilkinson entertain at a quiet, select dinner Mr. and Mrs. William Manning Skinner, of New York. The dinner guests were Mr. and Mrs. Philip Armitage, Mr. and Mrs. Almeric Baird, Mr. and Mrs. Jack Wendell—"

Jackson put the paper down. Somehow he felt guilty. He avoided his wife's reproachful eyes. But he did n't dare cover up his ears, and the ear is not always so successful at avoiding as the eye. The eye can see only straight ahead, but the ear can hear from all around.

"Think of it," sniffled Mrs. Jackson, her sniffle developing into a blubber as she went on. "I'm not a snob, but why can't I go with those people? We've got lots of money! I want to see the best kind of life, but I've never had the chance, and now these Skinners come here, are taken up,—wined and dined,—and we're left out in the cold!"



"How can I help that?" Jackson grunted. But he knew what was coming and it came.

"You could have helped it. Traded with McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., for years and then broke off—spoiled this chance!"

"How the deuce could I see two years ahead and know that Skinner was coming out here?" Jackson snapped. "Besides, he could n't have got us an invitation to that dinner anyhow!"

"The Wilkinsons have taken him up. They've established his social status. It was n't a public dinner, such as a politician gives to another politician; it was n't an automobile ride or a club affair. It was a private dinner, very private! They introduced him to the select few, the inner circle,—him and his wife,—his wife!!" she wailed.

"But what does that lead to?"

"We might not go there, but we could have had the Skinners here."

"What good would that do? It would n't put you in direct touch with the Wilkinsons, even if you did have the Skinners here."

"No, but it would help. The J. Matthews Wilkinsons dine them one day, the Willard Jacksons dine them another day. See—the connecting link?"

"Oh, damn these social distinctions," said Jackson. "It's you women that make 'em. We men don't!"

"I can't eat any breakfast," Mrs. Jackson sobbed. "I'm too upset. I must go to my room!"

Jackson did n't eat much breakfast either. When his wife had gone, he threw the paper to the floor and kicked it under the table, then he jammed his hat on to his head, and with a whole mass of profanity bubbling and boiling within him, he left the house. In the calm that succeeded the storm within, Jackson reflected that his present domestic tranquillity was threatened by the presence of these Skinners, and not only that, but their coming, if he could not avail of it, would be a source of reproach for years to come. Being something of a bookkeeper, he figured out that if, on the one hand, he might be compelled to eat a bit of humble pie,—not customarily a part of the curmudgeon's diet,—on the other hand, he would gain perhaps years of immunity from reproaches and twitting.

Many times he passed and re-passed The Hotel, first with a grim determination to go in, and then with as grim a determination not to go in. But at last his wife's troubled, haunting eyes won, as they always did, and he went in.

Jackson waited an hour before Skinner appeared. Skinner had reckoned that about that time the curmudgeon would be lounging around downstairs, waiting to meet him quite accidentally, so he permitted himself a cigar and a stroll in the office, which stroll was made to appear casual.

The curmudgeon had disposed himself in a huge armchair, which commanded a view of the elevator, and no sooner did he see Skinner emerge than he busied himself assiduously staring at, but not perceiving, the pages of the Sunday magazine section. With equal assiduity, Skinner, who as soon as he had left the elevator had observed Jackson, avoided seeing him, although he clearly perceived him.

Thus they played at cross-purposes for a while, these two overgrown boys.

"Hello," said Jackson, looking up from his paper as Skinner strolled past for the fourth time. "You here yet?"

"I hate to tear myself away," said Skinner. "Have a cigar?"

Jackson took the weed and indicated a chair next his own.

"By Jove," said Skinner, seating himself and crossing his legs comfortably, "I like this town. Wonderful climate, fine people—and"—he turned to Jackson—"devilish good grub."

"Have you had a trout dinner yet?" said Jackson.

"Yes. Out at the Lake the other day."

"I mean a real one—cooked by a real cook—all the trimmings."

"No, I can't say that I have."

Jackson paused, drummed on the arm of his chair, and swallowed hard. "I've got the best cook in the Middle West," he observed.

"That's going some."

"You think you've eaten, don't you? Well, you haven't. You ought to try my cook."

"That would be fine," said Skinner.

Skinner knew exactly what Jackson would say next. It was wonderful, he thought, almost uncanny, how the curmudgeon was doing just what he had schemed out that he would do—willed him to do. He felt like a magician operating the wires for some manikin to dance at the other end or a hypnotist directing a subject.

Things were going swimmingly for Jackson, too. He felt that he had executed his little scheme very well, without any danger of being found out or even suspected, yet he had never known things to fall in line as they were doing now. Still, he flattered himself it was good management. For Jackson was not a believer in luck.

"How long are you going to stay here?" he asked abruptly.

"Tuesday morning."

"You and the Missus had better come out and try that cook of mine before you go."

Jackson affected indifference, but his heart was beating high, higher than it had beaten for years, for he was a man that had always had his own way, and was not given to argument or diplomatic finessing. Having shot his bolt, Jackson waited.

Skinner turned in his chair. "That's mighty good of you, old chap," he said cordially. "You're just like these other hospitable Westerners. You've bragged about your cook and you want to show me that you can make good. But I'll let you off—I'll take your word for it this time."

"I don't want you to take my word for it," Jackson retorted. "Besides, I'd like to have your wife meet my wife!"

"So would I," said Skinner. He paused a moment.

Right here was the bit of humble pie that Jackson had prepared to eat, if necessary, but taken from the hand of a cordial fellow like Skinner, it would n't be so hard, after all.

"Skinner, you 're a good fellow—so am I a good fellow. I like you. There's no reason why we should n't be friends—personally—you understand."

"Mr. Jackson," said Skinner, "you're a frank man. I'm going to be frank with you. I don't feel that it would be loyal to my firm if I should accept your hospitality, under the circumstances. It's all well enough to be impersonal, separate business life from social life but"—and here he began to butter the humble pie that he had felt it to be inevitable that Jackson should eat—"you stood mighty well with our house. You've got a great reputation. It was most important to us. We did everything we could to please you. After the break came, we went the limit in the way of eating humble pie to get you back again. But you set your face against us hard. I might even waive that, but just you look at it yourself." Skinner laughed. "You know you did n't treat McLaughlin very well—and the curious part was, McLaughlin was always very fond of you personally."

At the last words Jackson capitulated. "See here, you and the Missus come out to dinner to-morrow night and we'll talk things over."

Skinner hesitated.

"I've thought this all out," said Jackson. "The Starr-Bacon folks have been figuring on that bunch of machinery that I'm going to get in. Here's what they say. Can you meet those figures?"

Skinner looked over the memorandum Jackson handed him and made a quick calculation. "Yes," said he, "we can meet them."

"The order is yours."

"I won't take it," said Skinner, "unless you throw in that trout dinner."

That night Skinner wired McLaughlin and Perkins, Inc., that he'd caught the bear and was bringing the hide home with him—the hide being the fattest order that that concern had had for many a day.

Then he jotted down in his little book:—

Dress-Suit Account

Debit Credit

Landed one curmudgeon!

Bait used—domestic tranquillity!

Method—did n't use any! Just stood off and waited, and he landed himself.



CHAPTER XI

THE OSTRICH FEATHER

When Skinner entered the office of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., two days later, he found that the partners had arranged a reception committee of two to welcome him.

Both shook hands cordially and McLaughlin said, "Skinner, we're not only convinced that you're a thoroughly honest and methodical man"—he glanced knowingly at Perking—"but that you're a very able man as well. We—"

Skinner cut him short. "Mr. McLaughlin, do I get the ostrich feather?"

"You do, indeed,—and I'm only sorry that the great auk is dead!"

Skinner blushed. "You don't know how good you 've made me feel, really you don't—giving me this chance to show what I could do."

"You had your chance and you showed what you could do, all right," McLaughlin broke in. He paused, then, "Now, tell us, Skinner, how did you do it?"

Skinner hesitated. "I'd rather not."

"Why?" said McLaughlin. "Ain't you got it patented?"

"Secret process," said Skinner.

"It's more than that, it's an effective process. But what's important to us, Skinner, is—could you work it on other folks besides Jackson?"

"Yes—that is, most other men—middle-aged men."

"Why middle-aged men?"

"Because they're married—most middle-aged men are."

McLaughlin turned to Perkins. "I'm darned if he ain't gone and mashed the climber. That's what I think!"

Skinner thrust his hands into his pockets, walked over to the window, then turned and slowly came back to within a few feet of where McLaughlin was sitting.

"On my way back from St. Paul, Mr. McLaughlin," he said—and Perkins, recognizing the premonitory symptoms, crossed to the window and stood with his back to his partner and "the cage man"—"Mr. McLaughlin," Skinner repeated after a pause, "I've been thinking that the most valuable man to any concern is the one that gets the business for it."

"Right-o!" said McLaughlin.

"And the hardest man to get," Skinner went on, "is the customer you get back. You not only have to pry him loose from some other concern with better figures, but you have his personal pride to overcome. To come back is a surrender."

"All of which means that you expect a raise, eh, Skinner?"

"I was only going to suggest—"

"You don't have to suggest. We've already decided to raise you twenty-five dollars a week. How does that strike you? Just as a mark of appreciation."

"I can't see any appreciation in it unless you take me out of the cage—for this reason," said Skinner. "As a 'cage man' I'm not worth much more than I 've been getting. In order to earn that extra twenty-five dollars a week I 've got to have a chance to show what I can do further. Take me out of the cage."

"Skinner," said McLaughlin, "you didn't for a minute think that we were going to keep a man that could pull off such a trick as that in a cage, did you? We're going to make you a salesman."

The idea of going on the road did n't appeal to Skinner.

"To be frank, Mr. McLaughlin, I want something better than that."

"Better?"

"Yes. I want to be put in charge of the sales department. You see, I not only know the business from beginning to end, but I want to show our salesmen that selling goods means something more than rattling off a list of what you've got, dilating like a parrot. I want to teach them the value of knowledge of the personal equation and how to apply that knowledge effectively. Does n't that telegram from Jackson show that I know something about it?"

"What do you think of Skinner's proposition?" McLaughlin said to the junior partner.

Perkins turned and came back to the table. "Skinner seems to have the goods."

"Mr. McLaughlin," Skinner urged, "it is n't that I feel big about what I've done, it is n't that I think I know more than anybody else, but I've had ideas about things I've always wanted to put into practice. When you sent me out to St. Paul, I formulated a little scheme of attack on Jackson, and you saw how it worked. I think that entitles my opinion to some respect. I've got the good of this concern at heart and I want to show what can be done along original lines."

McLaughlin looked at Perkins and Perkins nodded affirmatively.

"Skinner, I 'm going to let you see what you can do," said the senior partner; then paused. He turned to Perkins. "The devil of it is, what to do with Hobson."

"Let him take charge of the San Francisco office," Perkins suggested.

"I don't like to hurt the old chap's feelings."

"Hurt his feelings? Why, he's always wanted to go back to the Coast—where he belongs."

All that day, while Skinner was instructing the young man who was to succeed him as "cage man," he was very happy. He was happy that the field of his activities was broadening, that he'd have a chance to show what was in him. But he was particularly happy that now he would never have to tell Honey that he'd deceived her.

This, however, would involve a negative deception, worse luck, he mused, for he would not be able to tell her about the twenty-five dollars advance he'd just got. He would go right along as he had been doing, each week giving Honey ten dollars to deposit in the Meadeville National. Then he, himself, would deposit ten dollars a week until he'd made up for the number of weeks that had elapsed since he'd promoted himself. Thus their little bank account would remain intact, and Honey would not know unless—his heart slowed down—McLaughlin should take to bragging about him and how they'd shown their appreciation of what he'd done in St. Paul, and Mrs. McLaughlin should get hold of it and pass it along to Honey—which would have the effect of perpetuating his original, devilish raise.

But he was n't going to cross that bridge yet!

And so it came about that eight months later, one beautiful morning in December, McLaughlin said to the junior partner, "That which I feared has come upon us!"

"What's the matter? Has Skinner asked for another raise?"

"Worse'n that. The Starr-Bacon people have made him an offer!"

"I see! That's because he pried Willard Jackson and others loose from that concern. Probably they want him to use the same method to get those people away from us and back in to the S.-B. fold."

"It's clear what they want. It is n't so clear what we've got to do."

"Raise his pay again," Perkins suggested.

"That ain't enough. Skinner claims he wants broader fields of opportunity."

"I hope he's willing to let you and me run things a while longer."

"I don't know what to do. You see, Skinner proved to be an awfully good man, just so soon as we gave him his head. He's an all-round man. When he was cashier, he not only could collect money from anybody who had a cent, and without losing business either, but he steered us away from some very bad risks that those two enterprising young salesmen, Briggs and Henderson, tried to 'put over' on us."

"That was his business. He was cashier."

"But see what he's done since we made him manager of the sales department," urged McLaughlin. "He has not only opened up new territory and got in new customers, but he's reclaimed old, abandoned fields of operation and got back a lot of old fellows. He's delivered the goods all along the line, Perk. Besides that, it was Skinner that got us to put in that new machinery over in Newark. Why, it's already saved a quarter of its cost in fuel. Also, Perk, he's a great little adviser."

"I know his value, Mac, as well as you do."

McLaughlin laughed. "We did n't either of us know it till we sent him out West. He kept his light under a bushel so long."

"Kept it in a cage, you mean."

"If he goes over to the Starr-Bacon people, he takes his methods with him, and you know—customers follow methods."

"What we want to do," said the junior, "is to offset the Starr-Bacon offer without you and me having to sell our machines and take to the subway in order to pay his salary. How would it do to make him general manager? Skinner's ambitious—he's looking for honor."

"No," said McLaughlin, after pondering a few moments, "if we keep him on a salary and he remains an employee only, he will still be susceptible to outside offers. The only thing to do is to make him a partner! That's the only way to keep him!"

"Make him a partner, Mac? This isn't a firm any more; it's a corporation."

"Same thing—you and I own it, don't we?"

"Quite so."

"Well, all we've got to do's to give him a block of stock—ain't it?"

"Question 's, how much?"

"Enough to hold him."

"But how much would that be?" Perkins insisted.

"I 'll have to feel him out."

"I guess you 're right." Perkins paused a bit,—then, "Well, Mac, the worm turned—you didn't head him off?"

"Who wants to head off such a worm? Let him turn! The more he turns the better for us! Do you know what his first turn meant in terms of cash? No? Just ring for Millard."

Millard was chief bookkeeper.

That night, as Skinner sipped his second demi-tasse, he looked across the table at his beautiful wife, who was assiduously studying an automobile catalogue. The suggestion it conveyed gave Skinner a touch of apprehension. But the aforesaid touch lasted only a moment. He banished it and all other cares by making the following entry in his little book:—

Dress-Suit Account

Debit Credit

A one-third interest in McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc.

THE END