  The assistant bookkeeper had returned from his two weeks’ vacation—most of which had been spent in the vicinity of the main offices of the C., B. and L.—feeling a little sore. He had not been treated with the respect due to a person entrusted with important interests. Certain reports which represented hours of faithful work had been looked upon as of little worth, and others—facts most difficult, even dangerous, to obtain—had been demanded crassly. Moreover, his statement that the president of the “R. and Q.” was practically a broken-down man had been openly flouted. “You don’t know him,” the manager of the C., B. and L. had declared, sitting back in his big chair. “He’s been a broken-down man for years. I’d like to be broken-down, myself, the way he is, a little while!” Eds chair creaked comfortably. “He ’s a steel trap! That ’s what he is!” he said sharply. “Look out for your fingers.” The assistant bookkeeper had smiled ruefully, rubbing the fingers together. “Of course, I’ve never seen him before,” he said respectfully, “but if I know a man that ’s pretty near frazzled out—he ’s the man. There’s nothing to him but a blaze.” “You don’t know him,” said the manager brusquely. He took a sealed envelope from the desk and held it out.... “When you report again, we want the names of all parties shipping, with rates—and rebates,” he added significantly. “This won’t do, you know.” He tapped the report that had cost the assistant bookkeeper many anxious hours—lightly with his finger. The bookkeeper, whose hand almost of itself had reached out for the envelope, hesitated a little. “I don’t know that I shall stay with the ’R. and Q.,’” he said softly. “Don’t you!” The manager’s keen eyes read his little soul through—and smiled. “You have n’t any particular position in mind where you can draw a better salary for keeping one set of books, have you!” “I don’t know that I have—just now.” The tone was defiant—but wobbly. “All right, stay where you are. You won’t do better. Take my advice. You ’re getting along all right.” The assistant bookkeeper glanced again at the envelope—and took it. “You better see Tetlow, yourself,” he said as he went out. The manager nodded. “You ’re all right,” he repeated. “Harrington will bear watching,” he said to the division superintendent. “I don’t trust him.” “Don’t trust anybody,” said the superintendent. “You won’t get fooled.” “I wish I knew the truth about Sim Tetlow,” went on the other. “It would be just like him to pretend he was a wreck, and then spring on us and paw us all over while we ’re getting ready to squeeze him.... You can’t trust Harrington. He works for his pay.” He touched the report a little scornfully. “But who knows that Tetlow is n’t paying him—to say that he ’s a wreck—That makes three salaries—?” “Go and see for yourself,” said the other curtly. The manager’s face grew thoughtful. The shrewd light spread to his fat cheeks. “It ’s a good idea. I ’ll do it—right off.”
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