Love and the Ironmonger

The offices of Fairbrother and Co. were in the full swing of business when George Early sauntered in and took his accustomed place at a small desk.

"What time do you call this?" asked the head clerk severely, looking up from a ledger.

George looked at his watch.

"Half-past eight," he said intelligently; "that makes me half an hour late, doesn't it? Matter of fact, old chap, I----"

"That'll do," said the head clerk; "just you keep your place. And keep your time, too," he added warningly, "or else there'll be a vacancy in this office."

He marched off with a ledger under his arm, and George, with a wink at his nearest colleague, pulled a morning paper from an inner pocket and consulted the sporting column.

Fairbrothers' was an easy-going firm, that had the reputation of being good to its employees. If a man once got a seat on an office-stool there he was considered to have a berth for life, supposing of course that the iron trade and Upper Thames Street continued to exist. Fairbrothers' never dismissed a man unless he was a downright rogue, and in such a case it was believed that they secretly looked after him if he happened to be in a very bad way.

Nobody in the office minded much what was said unless Old Joe Fairbrother, the venerable head of the concern, happened to say it. If there was a threat of dismissal from anybody else the threatened man affected contrition and laughed up his sleeve. And although this general air of safety was as soothing to Thomas Parrott, the head clerk, as to anybody else, that admirable man's sense of duty compelled him to occasionally sound a warning note to his subordinates.

This morning the head clerk was in a bad temper, and found fault with everybody, especially with George Early.

"Who's been upsetting Polly?" asked George, looking round; "seems to have got 'em, doesn't he?"

"Wants a cracker," said the shorthand clerk; "got a bad attack of the pip."

"If he'd like his poll scratched," said George, impudently, "he's only got to say so."

A red-haired junior chimed in.

"It ain't that," he said; "Polly's looking for a new perch. Thinks Old Joe'll be wanting a manager soon."

Any reference to the head of the firm interested George.

"What's the matter with Old Joe?" he asked.

"Matter? What ain't the matter? you mean. Got one foot in the grave and the other on the edge. The poor old chap's fairly breaking up."

George turned thoughtfully to his work, but his mind ran on other things; the decay of the head of the firm opened up possibilities of promotion. A manager would be wanted soon.

To jump from the position of clerk to manager was unusual, but unusual things of that sort had a fascination for George Early. The work would just suit him; he always felt he was born to command. Compared with the other men in the office, George was quite a new hand; but the other men had less imagination and less confidence, and if they chose to follow the method of rising step by step it was their own affair.

The offices of Fairbrother and Co. were large and roomy, and occupied the lower part of an old-fashioned building in Upper Thames Street, adjoining a warehouse and a wharf. On the first floor facing the street and next to the showrooms was a large, handsome room. This was the private office of old Joseph Fairbrother, and no robber's cave with its glittering treasures had a greater fascination for any ambitious young man than had this apartment for George Early. The large roomy armchairs and the big safe appealed to him strongly. He liked to picture himself sitting in the biggest chair and sternly inquiring why certain orders had not been despatched a week ago; and he never went inside the door without the hope of coming out with an increase of salary.

The private office now became to George what the deserted wing of a country mansion is to the family ghost. If there was anything to go upstairs, he got it by hook or crook, and became the envoy. He liked to go best when the old gentleman was there, and when he wasn't George would look round the room, admire the handsome furniture, and stay as long as he dared. Sometimes he would carry up two letters and find that the room was empty. Then he would bring one down to make a second journey.

One morning he went up without anything at all. On this occasion he had seen Old Fairbrother in the lower office preparing to go out. George glanced around quickly, hoping that an umbrella or something of the sort had been left behind, so that he might dash after the retreating brougham. There was nothing.

"Just my luck!" he murmured, crossing to the window.

He looked out into the street, and, seeing that the brougham had departed, selected the biggest armchair, and from its depths thoughtfully perused the court column of a daily newspaper lying at hand.

Unfortunately he became so absorbed that he did not hear the familiar rattle of his employer's brougham as it returned and drew up outside, and it was not till the head of the firm was half-way up the stairs that he scented danger.

With alacrity George looked for means of escape, and at once turned to that which seemed easy and safe. This retreat was a private staircase which led direct from the room to the upper floors of the warehouse. He skipped across and closed the door behind him quickly and softly.

A second later old Joseph Fairbrother entered the room, and, as he did so, George Early found himself in another fix, for instead of passing through the door of the private staircase he had entered a tiny, box-like room which stood beside it. This room had no other outlet, and the venturesome clerk was a prisoner until his master chose to take himself off.

The young man selected the keyhole as a means of learning what was happening. It was a large keyhole, and he had ample means of proving that, so far as looks went, "Old Joe" had "one foot in the grave," as had been affirmed. To-day he looked older and more decrepit than usual, and for five minutes he did nothing but sit and look at the fire.

At the end of that time somebody else entered the room. George waited anxiously for the other party to come within range, and when he did so it proved to be Parrott.

"Sit down, Mr. Parrott," said Joseph Fairbrother; "one moment--hand me a cigar, please, and take one yourself."

The head clerk nervously helped himself to a cigar, and followed the lead of his chief as he lit up.

For another five minutes the old gentleman gazed abstractedly into the fire, finally shifting his gaze to the face of Parrott, who looked at everything in the room except his employer.

"Mr. Parrott," said Old Fairbrother, solemnly, "do you know why I have brought you here?"

The head clerk looked up with a start and coughed. He did not know why he had been brought there.

"Then I'll tell you," said his master. "I have made my will, Parrott, and I'm going to talk about a little legacy I have left you."

Parrott didn't know what to do, so he looked as bright as he could, and cleared his throat, as if to reply.

"Wait a minute," said the old gentleman, lifting a finger; "don't you thank me till you know what you're getting. I've had my eye on you, Parrott, for a good many years; I've watched you grow from a boy upwards, and I've noticed your good points and your bad ones. You're not the only one I have watched, but you're the only one I'm going to talk about now. When I have had my little say with you, there are others I shall talk to."

He took a long pull at his cigar, and allowed his eyes to rest on the uncomfortable Parrott, who seemed somewhat more doubtful of the issue of the interview than he had been a while ago.

"You're not my ideal of a man, Parrott," he continued; "but, of course, we all have our faults. You're a good man at your duty, and you believe in others doing their duty, which is right enough. There are not many in the office that love you, and I dare say you put it down to their selfishness and ignorance, or perhaps to envy. It isn't that, Parrott; it is you they don't like. They like a man who's sociable and one of them, and who's affable and generous. They don't like you because you're mean."

This home-thrust sent the colour rushing to the face of the head clerk, and the blood of his ancestors prompted him to get up and say--