II
He answered telephone calls, he read the four o'clock mail,
he signed his morning's letters, he talked to a tenant about
repairs, he fought with Stanley Graff.
Young Graff, the outside salesman, was always hinting that
he deserved an increase of commission, and to-day he complained,
"I think I ought to get a bonus if I put through the
Heiler sale. I'm chasing around and working on it every
single evening, almost.''
Babbitt frequently remarked to his wife that it was better
to "con your office-help along and keep 'em happy 'stead of
jumping on 'em and poking 'em up—get more work out of
'em that way,'' but this unexampled lack of appreciation hurt
him, and he turned on Graff:
"Look here, Stan; let's get this clear. You've got an idea
somehow that it's you that do all the selling. Where d' you
get that stuff? Where d' you think you'd be if it wasn't for
our capital behind you, and our lists of properties, and all the
prospects we find for you? All you got to do is follow up our
tips and close the deal. The hall-porter could sell Babbitt-Thompson
listings! You say you're engaged to a girl, but
have to put in your evenings chasing after buyers. Well, why
the devil shouldn't you? What do you want to do? Sit around
holding her hand? Let me tell you, Stan, if your girl is worth
her salt, she'll be glad to know you're out hustling, making
some money to furnish the home-nest, instead of doing the
lovey-dovey. The kind of fellow that kicks about working
overtime, that wants to spend his evenings reading trashy
novels or spooning and exchanging a lot of nonsense and foolishness
with some girl, he ain't the kind of upstanding, energetic
young man, with a future—and with Vision!—that we
want here. How about it? What's your Ideal, anyway? Do
you want to make money and be a responsible member of the
community, or do you want to be a loafer, with no Inspiration
or Pep?''
Graff was not so amenable to Vision and Ideals as usual.
"You bet I want to make money! That's why I want that
bonus! Honest, Mr. Babbitt, I don't want to get fresh, but
this Heiler house is a terror. Nobody'll fall for it. The flooring
is rotten and the walls are full of cracks''
"That's exactly what I mean! To a salesman with a love
for his profession, it's hard problems like that that inspire him
to do his best. Besides, Stan— Matter o' fact, Thompson
and I are against bonuses, as a matter of principle. We like
you, and we want to help you so you can get married, but we
can't be unfair to the others on the staff. If we start giving
you bonuses, don't you see we're going to hurt the feeling and
be unjust to Penniman and Laylock? Right's right, and discrimination
is unfair, and there ain't going to be any of it in
this office! Don't get the idea, Stan, that because during the
war salesmen were hard to hire, now, when there's a lot of men
out of work, there aren't a slew of bright young fellows that
would be glad to step in and enjoy your opportunities, and not
act as if Thompson and I were his enemies and not do any
work except for bonuses. How about it, heh? How about it?''
"Oh—well—gee—of course—'' sighed Graff, as he went
out, crabwise.
Babbitt did not often squabble with his employees. He
liked to like the people about him; he was dismayed when they
did not like him. It was only when they attacked the sacred
purse that he was frightened into fury, but then, being a man
given to oratory and high principles, he enjoyed the sound of
his own vocabulary and the warmth of his own virtue. To-day
he had so passionately indulged in self-approval that he
wondered whether he had been entirely just:
"After all, Stan isn't a boy any more. Oughtn't to call him
so hard. But rats, got to haul folks over the coals now and
then for their own good. Unpleasant duty, but— I wonder
if Stan is sore? What's he saying to McGoun out there?''
So chill a wind of hatred blew from the outer office that
the normal comfort of his evening home-going was ruined. He
was distressed by losing that approval of his employees to
which an executive is always slave. Ordinarily he left the
office with a thousand enjoyable fussy directions to the effect
that there would undoubtedly be important tasks to-morrow,
and Miss McGoun and Miss Bannigan would do well to be
there early, and for heaven's sake remind him to call up Conrad
Lyte soon 's he came in. To-night he departed with feigned
and apologetic liveliness. He was as afraid of his still-faced
clerks—of the eyes focused on him, Miss McGoun staring with
head lifted from her typing, Miss Bannigan looking over her
ledger, Mat Penniman craning around at his desk in the dark
alcove, Stanley Graff sullenly expressionless—as a parvenu before
the bleak propriety of his butler. He hated to expose
his back to their laughter, and in his effort to be casually merry
he stammered and was raucously friendly and oozed wretchedly
out of the door.
But he forgot his misery when he saw from Smith Street
the charms of Floral Heights; the roofs of red tile and green
slate, the shining new sun-parlors, and the stainless walls.