The next day the head book-keeper, who lunched at the long counter of the same restaurant with Corey, began to talk with him about Lapham.Walker had not apparently got his place by seniority; though with his forehead, bald far up toward the crown, and his round smooth face, one might have taken him for a plump elder, if he had not looked equally like a robust infant.The thick drabbish yellow moustache was what arrested decision in either direction, and the prompt vigour of all his movements was that of a young man of thirty, which was really Walker's age.
He knew, of course, who Corey was, and he had waited for a man who might look down on him socially to make the overtures toward something more than business acquaintance; but, these made, he was readily responsive, and drew freely on his philosophy of Lapham and his affairs.
"I think about the only difference between people in this world is that some know what they want, and some don't.Well, now," said Walker, beating the bottom of his salt-box to make the salt come out, "the old man knows what he wants every time.And generally he gets it.
Yes, sir, he generally gets it.He knows what he's about, but I'll be blessed if the rest of us do half the time.
Anyway, we don't till he's ready to let us.You take my position in most business houses.It's confidential.
The head book-keeper knows right along pretty much everything the house has got in hand.I'll give you my word I don't.He may open up to you a little more in your department, but, as far as the rest of us go, he don't open up any more than an oyster on a hot brick.
They say he had a partner once; I guess he's dead.
I wouldn't like to be the old man's partner.Well, you see, this paint of his is like his heart's blood.
Better not try to joke him about it.I've seen people come in occasionally and try it.They didn't get much fun out of it."While he talked, Walker was plucking up morsels from his plate, tearing off pieces of French bread from the long loaf, and feeding them into his mouth in an impersonal way, as if he were firing up an engine.
"I suppose he thinks," suggested Corey, "that if he doesn't tell, nobody else will."Walker took a draught of beer from his glass, and wiped the foam from his moustache.
"Oh, but he carries it too far! It's a weakness with him.
He's just so about everything.Look at the way he keeps it up about that type-writer girl of his.You'd think she was some princess travelling incognito.There isn't one of us knows who she is, or where she came from, or who she belongs to.He brought her and her machine into the office one morning, and set 'em down at a table, and that's all there is about it, as far as we're concerned.
It's pretty hard on the girl, for I guess she'd like to talk; and to any one that didn't know the old man----"Walker broke off and drained his glass of what was left in it.
Corey thought of the words he had overheard from Lapham to the girl.But he said, "She seems to be kept pretty busy.""Oh yes," said Walker; "there ain't much loafing round the place, in any of the departments, from the old man's down.
That's just what I say.He's got to work just twice as hard, if he wants to keep everything in his own mind.But he ain't afraid of work.That's one good thing about him.
And Miss Dewey has to keep step with the rest of us.
But she don't look like one that would take to it naturally.
Such a pretty girl as that generally thinks she does enough when she looks her prettiest.""She's a pretty girl," said Corey, non-committally."But Isuppose a great many pretty girls have to earn their living.""Don't any of 'em like to do it," returned the book-keeper.
"They think it's a hardship, and I don't blame 'em.They have got a right to get married, and they ought to have the chance.
And Miss Dewey's smart, too.She's as bright as a biscuit.
I guess she's had trouble.I shouldn't be much more than half surprised if Miss Dewey wasn't Miss Dewey, or hadn't always been.Yes, sir," continued the book-keeper, who prolonged the talk as they walked back to Lapham's warehouse together, "I don't know exactly what it is,--it isn't any one thing in particular,--but I should say that girl had been married.I wouldn't speak so freely to any of the rest, Mr.Corey,--I want you to understand that,--and it isn't any of my business, anyway; but that's my opinion."Corey made no reply, as he walked beside the book-keeper, who continued--"It's curious what a difference marriage makes in people.
Now, I know that I don't look any more like a bachelor of my age than I do like the man in the moon, and yet Icouldn't say where the difference came in, to save me.
And it's just so with a woman.The minute you catch sight of her face, there's something in it that tells you whether she's married or not.What do you suppose it is?""I'm sure I don't know," said Corey, willing to laugh away the topic."And from what I read occasionally of some people who go about repeating their happiness, I shouldn't say that the intangible evidences were always unmistakable.""Oh, of course," admitted Walker, easily surrendering his position."All signs fail in dry weather.
Hello! What's that?" He caught Corey by the arm, and they both stopped.
At a corner, half a block ahead of them, the summer noon solitude of the place was broken by a bit of drama.
A man and woman issued from the intersecting street, and at the moment of coming into sight the man, who looked like a sailor, caught the woman by the arm, as if to detain her.A brief struggle ensued, the woman trying to free herself, and the man half coaxing, half scolding.
The spectators could now see that he was drunk;but before they could decide whether it was a case for their interference or not, the woman suddenly set both hands against the man's breast and gave him a quick push.
He lost his footing and tumbled into a heap in the gutter.
The woman faltered an instant, as if to see whether he was seriously hurt, and then turned and ran.
When Corey and the book-keeper re-entered the office, Miss Dewey had finished her lunch, and was putting a sheet of paper into her type-writer.She looked up at them with her eyes of turquoise blue, under her low white forehead, with the hair neatly rippled over it, and then began to beat the keys of her machine.
