JENKINS was a special writer of national reputation, and he had come on from Philadelphia to see Homer Dean, the automobile man whose name is a registered trade-mark borne by some hundred thousand cars of the first class upon the nation’s thoroughfares. Jenkins’ appointment with Dean was for two-thirty in the afternoon, but he was in the reception room outside the other’s office a little ahead of time.

While he sat there Dean came out with an older man, to whom he was saying goodby, and when this older man was gone the millionaire turned to Jenkins with a friendly nod of invitation, and Jenkins followed him into his office. But Dean at once went to a closet in the corner and brought out his coat and hat, saying: “I’m going to have to put you off till to-morrow, Mr. Jenkins. Old Jasper Hopkins, my first boss—that was him who just went out—has just told me something I should have known twenty years ago. I’ve got to—straighten it out. Come in to-morrow, can you?”

The writer’s disappointment showed in his face. “I had figured on taking the six o’clock to-night.”

Dean hesitated, glancing at his watch. “Just what is it you wanted of me?” he asked.

Jenkins smiled. “The usual thing. The story of how you did it. People are always interested in such things. Self-made man, you know. It’s old stuff, sir, but it’s sure-fire.”

“I know,” the automobile man agreed, nodding thoughtfully. He considered for a moment, then, with abrupt decision, took off his coat, his hat. “After all, it’s waited twenty years,” he said. “Another two hours won’t matter. And—the affair may interest you.” He turned back to his desk, indicated a chair for the other. “Sit down,” he directed. “I think I understand what you’re planning. ‘How to Make Yourself. By One Who Has Done It.’ Is that the idea?”

“Yes.”

Dean smiled. “I’ve heard folks speak of me as self-made,” he confessed. “In fact, that has been, secretly, my own idea. Until an hour ago. Just how much do you know of my—success, anyway?”

“I know you’re the head of one of the half dozen biggest concerns in the business.”

“Know how I came to be here?”

“You were managing vice-president in the beginning; bought out Hopkins ten years or so ago.”

“Can you go back any farther than that?”

“I’ve understood you were sales manager of the old Hopkins Tool Company; that you were a world beater in that job.”

Dean laughed. “Those were boom times, and sales jumped. I happened to be the head of the department, and I got the credit. Ever hear how Hopkins came to make me sales manager?” Jenkins shook his head.

“He had put me on as a salesman,” Dean explained. “My first trip, a big prospect hunted me up, said he’d decided to trade with us, and gave me a whooping order. My predecessor had worked on them four years; they fell into my lap, and Hopkins thought I was a worker of miracles from that day.”

Jenkins shook his head, smiling. “You give yourself the worst of it,” he commented.

Dean’s eyes had become sober and thoughtful; he spoke slowly, as though invoking memory. “You’ve called me a self-made man. But, as a matter of fact, it was the mere accident that I was on the spot which gave me that first order; and that order made me sales manager within two months’ time. By and by the automobile came along, and Old Jasper remodeled his factory and went after the business—with me in charge. He gave me some stock; and a year or two later his son Charlie died and took the heart out of the old man. He offered to sell out to me, and I gave him a bundle of notes for the whole thing. The business paid them off inside of five years. Do you see? The fact that I was salesman made me sales manager; the fact that I was sales manager made me vice-president; the fact that I was vice-president threw the business into my hands; and the fact that everybody wanted to buy cars has done the rest. Still call me a self-made man?”

“After all,” Jenkins suggested, “you had made good or you wouldn’t have been given the job as salesman.”

Dean nodded emphatically. “That’s the key to the whole structure,” he agreed. “That first job as salesman. And that’s what I want to tell you about. If you care to hear.”

The reporter did care to hear, and this—as he shaped the tale in his thoughts thereafter—is what he heard:

II

Homer Dean and Will Matthews grew up in adjoining back yards, fought and bled with and for each other as boys will, went through high school side by side, took a business course given by a broken-down bookkeeper in a bare room over the Thornton Drug Store, and went to work in the offices of the Hopkins Tool Company within a month of each other, as vacancies occurred there. Will got the first job, Homer the second. They helped with labels in the shipping room, kept checking lists, and eventually graduated to keeping books.

The tool company was a one-man concern. Old Jasper Hopkins had founded it, and intended to turn it over to his boy Charlie when his own time should be done. Old Jasper—he was then no more than in his late forties, but he was Old Jasper just the same—was a man of many eccentricities. He had begun as a mechanic, a machinist; and he had mastered the machinery of the shop, but never mastered the machinery of business. He picked machinists for his shop work, but for the white-collar jobs he chose men with no grime under their finger nails. Who sought a job with him began in the shipping room, and advanced—if he had merit—through regular and accustomed channels. Keeping books was the second rung of the ladder. Jasper could not multiply eight by seven; he had a vast respect for any man who could.

Will Matthews could, and so could Homer Dean. Also they recommended themselves to Jasper in other ways. The head of the Hopkins Tool Company had breathed the dust from his own emery wheels in the past; he was of a gritty and abrading disposition. His nerves were tight, his temper was loose; and to arouse him meant an explosion that resembled nothing so much as the commotion which results when the mainspring of an ancient alarm clock, in process of dissection, is injudiciously set free.

His prejudices were tradition. While Will and Homer were still in the shipping room they heard how he had scorched Charlie Dunn with many words over the mere slamming of a door. And how he had reduced Luther Worthing from salesman to bookkeeper again because Luther faced him one morning with waistcoat half unbuttoned. And how he had summarily discharged Jim Porter for carelessly rumpling the corner of the office rug. Noise he hated, neatness and order he demanded and revered; and more than one office boy had lost his job for scanting his daily task of putting a fresh and spotless blotter on the broad pad upon Old Jasper’s desk.

These likes and dislikes Homer and Will respected; to a legitimate extent they catered to them; and thus they attained a certain eminence in their employer’s eyes. He had been known to refer to them as promising young men. They knew this as well as others did, and there was a good-natured rivalry between them to see which should distance the other on the upward way.

III

This was not the only rivalry between the two young men. Her name was Annie Cool, and she was some four years younger than either. They became aware of her the year after her graduation from high school, when she let down her skirts and put up her prettily luxuriant hair and ceased to be “that Cool kid” in their eyes. There is a wide gulf between twelve and sixteen; there is even a gulf between sixteen and twenty. But when the signs are right, there is no gulf at all between, say, eighteen and twenty-two.

Annie was eighteen and they were twenty-two. Presently she was nineteen and they were twenty-three, and a little after that she was twenty and they were twenty-four.

By this time each of the young men was conscious of much more than a pleasantly intense delight in Annie Cool’s companionship. Will Matthews was always somewhat more mature than Homer Dean; he took Annie more seriously. He wooed her gently, with kindliness and much persistence; and Homer wooed her laughingly, with raillery and the rough teasing that goes with youth. There were times when she liked to be with Will; there were other times when she liked to be with Homer, but most of the time she liked to be with both of them, and said so. Other young men of the community knew the uselessness of intrusion on their intimacy.

It had not come to the point of marriage talk, for Will and Homer were getting only a matter of fifteen dollars weekly wage, and even in those days fifteen dollars a week was not considered a competence. But Jasper never paid his bookkeepers more. A salesman, now, was another matter; beside those of a bookkeeper, his wages were munificent. Enough, that is to say, for marrying.

In the fall of the year, when they were twenty-four and Annie Cool was twenty, Steve Randall was killed in a train wreck. Steve was a salesman in the southern territory, and Old Jasper was accustomed to fill vacancies in his selling force from the men who worked upon his books. Both Will and Homer were in line for the job. For three days, till after Steve’s funeral, everyone ignored this fact; then a certain atmosphere of expectancy began to develop in the office. Old Jasper was in bed at home with a shaking cold, but on the fourth day word came that next morning would see him at the office. Everyone knew his choice would be either Homer or Will.

On their way home together after work that day these two met Charlie Hopkins, the old man’s son; and Charlie stopped, smiling like a bearer of good news. “I’ve just come from father,” he told them, and he added: “Homer, you’ve got to congratulate Will this time.”

He shook Will by the hand, and Homer said:

“You’re going to get it, Will. Good for you. I sure am glad!”

Will looked at the other, and there was a faint mist in his eyes. “I know you are, Homer,” he said. “I’d have been just as glad for you.”

Nevertheless, both knew that this moment must always mark the parting of their ways. Thus far they had gone shoulder to shoulder; hereafter one would lead. Also, both thought of Annie Cool.

IV

That evening after supper Homer Dean went over to see Annie. He did not telephone to ask if he might come, for Annie was always glad to see him, or to see Will, whether she knew they were coming or not. Homer got there early, so early that the Cools were still at supper, and he went into the dining room and sat by the door, refusing Mrs. Cool’s hospitable urgings that he eat a second supper with them. He did surrender to a piece of pumpkin pie, but it failed to raise his spirits. He was not yet able to face with composure the fact that Will had beaten him. Will was his friend; there was no malice in Homer. Nevertheless, he was disappointed, and discouraged, and sick at heart.

This was not apparent to Mr. Cool, nor to Annie’s mother, nor to her younger sister and brother. They all liked Homer, and they talked to him, all at once, but Annie said very little. She watched him, with a curiously wistful questioning in her eyes, but she did not at that time put her question into words.

After supper Mr. Cool and Homer went into the sitting room and smoked together while Mrs. Cool and the two girls cleaned up the supper dishes. Annie’s brother had gone downtown immediately after supper, and soon after they came in from the kitchen Annie’s sister was borne away by one of the boys of the neighborhood. Then Annie drew a scarf across her shoulders and suggested to Homer that they sit on the porch.

“It’s warm to-night,” she told him. “We shan’t be cold.”

So they went outside and sat down a little to one side of the front steps, where they were shadowed and hidden by some wistaria vines from which the leaves were just beginning to fall. And Annie asked at once:

“What is it, Homer? What is wrong?”

He did not ask her how she knew anything was wrong. In a boyish fashion he had rather enjoyed the melancholy mien he wore, and knew she had noticed it.

“Oh—nothing,” he said.

Annie shook her head in slow reproof, her eyes softly shining in the shadows.

“Yes, there is too, Homer,” she insisted. “Please tell me what it is.”

“Why, I haven’t any right to growl,” he told her. “I didn’t mean you to see. Didn’t mean anyone to see.”

“I could see,” she insisted gently.

He and Will had already explained to her the significance of the death of Steve Randall, the salesman; it was not necessary for Homer to repeat these things. He simply said: “Will’s got that job.”

She did not speak for a moment, then asked softly: “Mr. Randall’s—job?”

“Yes. Charlie Hopkins told us to-night his father had decided.” He added with careful sportsmanship: “Of course Will deserves it. He’s a better man. But I sort of hoped I’d.... Oh, you know.”

“I know, Homer,” she agreed, in a voice that was scarce more than a whisper. And laid her hand, ever so lightly, upon the hand of Homer Dean.

Now Annie Cool had kissed and been kissed many a time, by Will, and by Homer, and by others, in the cheerful frolicking of youth; and she had held hands on hay rides, or beneath the table at supper parties, or even on more public occasions. Thus that she should touch Homer’s hand had in itself no great significance.

But she had never touched his hand, nor he hers, before this night, save when there were others all about them; and always before this night there had been laughter back of the gesture. This night there was not laughter; there were tears.

A conspicuously different matter.

Ten minutes later they drew their eyes one from another for long enough to see that a man had come across the lawn from the street to the steps; that he stood there, looking at them. A man. Will Matthews.

“Will!” cried Annie; and Homer came to his feet, laughing in nervous exhilaration. “Will, old man,” he exclaimed.

Will stepped up on the porch, and they saw that he was smiling. He held out his hand. “I’m sorry I—butted in,” he apologized. “But I’m glad I was the first to know. You’ll never be sorry, Annie. Homer....” Homer had gripped his hand; each held the other fast, as good friends will.

He stayed only a minute, then left them alone together; and he left no shadow of sorrow for him to cloud their hour of happiness.

V

Will Matthews had a practical and straightforward habit of thought; he possessed what men call a level head. He was not given to illusions; and through that long night he faced facts squarely and without self-deception. He had time to weigh many matters, for he did not sleep at all. Time to fight off the first and crushing grief, time to understand fully and beyond changing that he could never love any girl but Annie. He meant that Annie should never know how deeply he had cared, would always care. He could spare her this measure of unhappiness. There was a somber sort of pleasure in planning thus to serve her. Thus and in other fashions.... Do what he could to make her happy as might be.... His thoughts went racing on a half-seen road.

Will was not a heroic figure. Rather a small man, with light hair and a round and amiable countenance, there was nothing about him to arrest the eye. He already wore glasses; his shoulders were already faintly stooped from too close companionship with the ledgers where lay his daily toil. His mother made him wear a strip of oily, red flannel about his throat when he had taken cold. All in all, a man at whom you were like to smile.

But—hear what Will did, and try then if you’re moved to smile.

He made it his business to reach the office next morning some five minutes ahead of the hour. It was chance, a chance that favored what he meant to do, which made Homer Dean ten minutes late. Old Jasper was there before Will; and Will found on his desk a memorandum, commanding him to come at once to Jasper’s office.

He read this memorandum slowly, considering once more the details of his plan.

None of the other bookkeepers had yet arrived; he was alone. Jasper was in his office at the end of the corridor, a few yards away. After a moment Will went out into this corridor and turned toward Jasper’s door. Outside this door he hesitated, and one hand fumbled at his throat, then dropped to the pocket at his side. From within the office he heard old Jasper’s rumbling cough; and he knocked upon the panel.

Jasper called: “Come in.”

Will obeyed. He pushed the door open, stepped slowly inside, and thrust it shut behind him. He did not slam the door; nevertheless the impact was sufficient to make Old Jasper grimace with distaste, and clap his hands to his ears. Will stood still, waiting for the other to speak; and his employer barked:

“What’s the matter with you, anyway? Come here?”

Will moved slowly across the office till he faced Jasper across the other’s immaculate desk. He rested his finger tips on the polished surface, standing uneasily under the older man’s glare.

Abruptly Jasper cried: “Where’s your cravat, Matthews? You’re not half dressed, man. What’s got into you?”

Will’s hand flew to his collar.

“Why, I—I must have forgotten it,” he lamely apologized. “I’m very sorry, sir.”

Jasper snorted; and Will’s hands fidgeted nervously about the tall, old-fashioned ink bottle on the desk before him. The other seemed to hesitate; he cleared his throat importantly. At last he said:

“Well, for God’s sake look out for your appearance better than that hereafter. I sent for you to....”

Will heard him in something like despair. The slammed door, the lost cravat, these had not been sufficient. He set his teeth hard, and one of his nervous hands touched the high ink bottle. It tilted dangerously. He seemed to try to catch it; but the thing escaped him, was overturned. Across the spotless blotter spread a widening black flood; and as Jasper pushed back his chair with awkward haste, those few drops which the blotter had not absorbed flowed over the edge of the desk and descended upon the rug.

The storm broke upon Will’s devoted head; and he stood with burning cheeks under the old man’s profane and scourging tongue, till the first force of Jasper’s anger was spent, and he cried:

“Damn it, I ought to kick you out for good and all. But you never did a thing like this before. You—”

He fell silent, stumped away across the room as though ill at ease. “I meant to—” he began, then stopped again. Stood a moment by the window, looking out; swung back to where Will stood.

“Look up the Fosdick account for me,” he said, with averted eyes. “Give me the figures on it. That’s all. Get out of here.”

Will got out. In the corridor he paused for a moment to replace his cravat, swiftly fitting the stiff ends under the wings of his collar. He was back on his high stool before the first of the other bookkeepers arrived.

When Homer Dean came in, ten minutes late, Old Jasper’s office boy was in the room, looking for him. “The boss wants to see you, Homer,” he said. Right away.”...

VI

“So,” said Homer Dean, the millionaire, to Jenkins, the reporter. “So I got the job, went on the road, my luck began.”

Jenkins had listened without interruption; now he nodded slow acquiescence. “And he handed it to you. How did you find it out?”

“I’m ashamed of that part,” Homer admitted. “Will and I talked it over at the time, decided Charlie had been mistaken. Old Jasper came in to-day, to talk about old times. I’d never asked him before; to-day I did ask: Why he gave me the job? And he told me what Will did that day.”

“Think it was an accident?” Jenkins asked curiously.

Dean shook his head. “I know Will too well. Besides, the ink might have been an accident, but not the cravat, for he had his cravat on when I came in that morning. No, I can see it beyond any doubting, now.”

The writer nodded. “A pretty decent thing,” he commented. “What became of Matthews?”

“He’s our head bookkeeper, at the office downtown. I was going straight to find him when you came.”

Jenkins reached for his hat. His words were commonplace enough, but there was eloquence in his tone.

“Don’t let me keep you, Mr. Dean,” he said.