Part 16 (1/2)
”And even if the percentage beats you, you've got something you never had before, Henry, and that's the solid respect of your community.
Everybody knows you hated this job. Everybody's back of you.”
”Up on the farm,” said Henry, thoughtfully. ”There was a field-hand with a great line of philosophy. Some of it was sort of crude, but--one day Uncle John was saying something about tough things we all have to do, and this fellow chimed in and said: 'Yes, sir, every man's got to skin his own skunk.'”
Mr. Archer smiled and nodded. ”Your year won't have been wasted, Henry. And when it's over, if you want to get out of the picture business, you'll find that you can get a dozen first-rate jobs from men who wouldn't have taken you in as their office-boy a season ago.... Give my love to your wife, Henry, and tell her for me that I'm proud of you.”
”I'll tell her,” said Henry, ”but _I_ won't be proud until I've nailed that skin over the barn-door.”
On his way out, he dropped in for a moment to see Bob Standish. Bob was at his old tricks again; and while his compet.i.tors in realty, and insurance, and mortgage loans, made the same mistake that once his cla.s.smates and instructors and the opposing ends and tackles had made, and argued that his fair skin and his innocent blue eyes, his indolent manner and his perfection of dress all evidenced his lack of wit and stamina, he had calmly proceeded to chase several of those compet.i.tors out of business, and to purchase their good-will on his own terms. It was popularly said, in his own circle, that Standish would clear a hundred thousand dollars his first year.
He winked lazily at Henry, and indicated a chair. ”Set!” said Standish. ”Glad you came in. Two things to ask you. Want to sell?
Want to rent?”
”If you were in my shoes, would you sell, Bob?”
”I can get you twenty-eight thousand.”
”That's low.”
”Sure, but everybody knows you've got a clientele that n.o.body else could get. Are you talking?”
”I--guess not just yet.”
”Want to rent? I just had a nibble for small s.p.a.ce; you could get fifty a month for that attic you're using for a nursery.”
”I--hardly think so, Bob. That's a pet scheme of Anna's, and besides, we need it. It's good advertising.”
His friend's eyes were round and childlike. ”Made any plans for the future, Henry? Know what you'll do if you stub your toe?”
”Sell out and strike you for a job, I guess.”
”Don't believe it would work, old man.”
”Don't you think so?”
”One pal boss another? Too much family.”
Henry looked serious. ”I'm sorry you think so. _I_ wouldn't have kicked.”
”No, I'm afraid I couldn't give you a job, old dear. I like you too well to bawl you out. But maybe we'll do business together some other way.”
As he drove his tin runabout homeward, Henry was unusually downcast.
He didn't blame Standish--Standish had showed himself over and over to be Henry's best friend on earth. But it was dispiriting to realize how Standish must privately appraise him. Henry recalled the justification, and grew red to think of the ten years of their acquaintance--ten years of continuous achievement for Standish, and only a few months of compulsory display for himself. But he wished that Standish hadn't thrown in that last remark about doing business together some other way. That wasn't like Bob, and it hurt.
It was too infernally commercial.
He found the apartment deserted. His shout of welcome wasn't answered: his whistle, in the private code which everybody uses, met with dead silence. Henry hung up his hat with considerable pique, and lounged into the living-room. What excuse had Anna to be missing at the sacred hour of his return? Didn't she know that the happiest moment of his whole day was when she came flying into his arms as soon as he crossed the threshold? Didn't she know that as the golden pheasants fled further and further into the thicket of unreality, the more active was his need of her? He wondered where she had gone, and what had kept her so late. Was this a precedent, and had the first veneer of their companionability worn off so soon--for Anna?
A new apprehension seized him, and he hurried from room to room to see if instead of censuring Anna, he ought to censure himself. There were so many accidents that might have happened to her. Women have been burned so severely as to faint: they have drowned in a bathtub: they have fallen down dumb-waiter shafts: they have been asphyxiated when the gas-range went out. And to think that only a moment ago, he had been vexed with her. The sight of each room, once so hideously commonplace, now so charming with Anna's artistry and the work of her own hands--her beautiful hands which ought to be so cared for--filled him with contrition and fresh nervousness.