The Buckaroo of Blue Wells

James Eaton Legg hooked his heels over the rounds of his high stool, stretched wearily and looked out through the none-too-clean windows to where a heavy fog almost obscured the traffic. Heavy trucks lumbered past, grinding harshly over the cobbles. Somewhere a street-car motorman did a trap-drum effect on his gong; a ferry boat whistled boomingly. And there was the incessant roar of the every-day noises of the commercial district.

James Eaton Legg was not a prepossessing person. He was less than thirty years of age, slightly beneath medium height, slender. His face was thin, rather boyish, his mild blue eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses. His mouth was wide, and when he yawned wearily he showed a good set of teeth.

For several years James had been a bookkeeper with Mellon & Co., Wholesale Grocers, San Francisco—and he was still acting in the same capacity. His slightly stooped shoulders attested to the fact that James had bent diligently over his work. Whether fortunately, or unfortunately, James was an orphan. His mother had died while he was still very young, and when James had just finished high school, his father had gone the way of all flesh.

James was cognizant of the fact that somewhere in the world he had some relatives, but that fact caused him little concern. He remembered that his mother had a sister, who was well endowed with worldly goods, and he also remembered that his father had said that his Aunt Martha would probably die with all her wealth intact.

James turned from his contemplation of the foggy street, and his blue eyes studied the occupants of the big office. There was Henry Marsh, humped like an old buzzard, his long nose close to the ledger page, as he had been the first time James had seen him. He had grown old with Mellon & Co.—so old that he worried about his job.

There were younger men, working adding machines, delving in accounts; preparing themselves for a life of drudgery. Over in the cashier’s cage was David Conley, frozenfaced, pathetic; as old as Mellon & Co. James shuddered slightly. If he lived to be seventy, and worked faithfully, he might occupy that cage.

James was being paid the munificent sum of seventy dollars a month. He happened to know that David Conley drew one hundred and fifty dollars in his monthly envelope. James shook his head and shifted his gaze back to the window. He did not feel like working. It all seemed so useless; this idea of putting down figures and adding them up; eating, sleeping, and coming back to put down more figures.

He turned from contemplation of the wet street, and looked at Blair Mellon, senior member of the firm, who had come in from his private office. He was nearing seventy, thin, stooped, irascible. Nothing seemed to please him. His beady eyes shifted from one employee to another, as he walked slowly. He had made a success of business, but a wreck of himself. The boys of the firm called him “Caucus,” because of the fact that once a week he would hold a caucus in the office, at which time he would impress upon them the fact that the firm was everything, and that nothing else mattered.

He would invite suggestions from department heads, and when an idea did not please him he would fly into a rage. James Eaton Legg mildly suggested at one of the caucuses that the firm supply each bookkeeper with a fountain pen, in order to economize on lost motions—and nearly lost his job. Not because of trying to increase the efficiency of the bookkeeping department, but because fountain pens cost money.

All the firm mail came to Blair Mellon’s office, and it was his delight to distribute it. Just now he had several letters which he was passing out. He walked past James, stopped. James was looking at the street again. The old man scowled at the letters in his hand, one of which was addressed to James Eaton Legg. It bore the imprint of a Chicago law firm.

Blair Mellon did not believe that a bookkeeper should waste his time in looking out of the window, but just now he couldn’t think of a fitting rebuke; so he placed the letter on James Legg’s desk and went on.

James Legg’s mild blue eyes contemplated the name of the law firm on the envelope. It all looked so very legal that James wondered what it might all mean. He drew out the enclosure and read it carefully. Then he removed his glasses, polished them carefully, and read it again. Then he propounded inelegantly, but emphatically—

“Well, I’ll be ——!”

Blair Mellon had come back past the desk just in time to hear this exclamation. He stopped short and stared at James.

“Mr. Legg!” he said curtly. “You evidently forget the rule against profanity in this office.”

But James Legg ignored everything, except his own thoughts.

“If that don’t beat ——, what does?” he queried.

Blair Mellon stared aghast. This was downright mutiny. He struggled for the proper words with which to rebuke this young man.

“Say, Caucus,” said James, giving Mellon the nickname he had never heard before, “where do they raise cattle?”

“Were you speaking to me, sir?” demanded Mellon.

James realized what he had said, and for a moment his face flushed.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Mellon.”

“I should think you would, sir. Such language!”

It seemed that all work had ceased in the office. Not even a telephone bell rang.

“Have you any excuse for speaking in such a manner?” demanded the old man, conscious that every one had heard.

James Eaton Legg surveyed the room. Every eye was upon him. He noticed that even the stenographers had ceased chewing their gum. Then James Legg laughed, as he drew off his black sateen oversleeves and cast them aside. He slid off his stool, almost into the irate Mellon.

“Well, sir!” the old man’s voice creaked.

“Aw, save it for somebody that’s working for you,” said James Legg easily. “I’ve quit.”

“Quit?”

“Yes. Strange, isn’t it?” James Legg smiled at the old man. “Bookkeepers don’t usually quit, do they? No, they stick to the job until their chin hits their knees, and the undertaker has to put them in a press for two days before they’ll fit a casket. I suppose the cashier will pay me off, Mr. Mellon.”

“Well—er—yes, sir! It is just as well that you do quit. This is very, very unusual for an employee of Mellon and Company to—”

“To quit?” smiled James. “Sets a precedent.”

“Ordinarily, we would offer a letter of recommendation, but in a case of—”

“Couldn’t use it, but thank you just the same, Mr. Mellon. I am through keeping books. I’m going to take a job where I can breathe fresh air, smoke a cigaret on the job and swear when I —— please.”

The old man’s lean jaw set tightly for a moment, but he said icily:

“And what are you going to do, if I may ask?”

“Me?” James Legg smiled broadly around the room. “I’m going to be a cowpuncher.”

“A—a—what?”

“A cowboy, if that makes it plain to you.”

One of the stenographers tittered. She had her own idea of a cowboy, possibly not from the real article; so she might be forgiven for seeing humor in Legg’s statement. He flushed a little, turned on his heel and went to the wash-room, every one looking after him. Blair Mellon broke the spell with—