in order to weigh and classify, were enabled to slit many more throats per day.
He did not know it, but he thought all this because he wished to go fishing. Therefore he said: "I've got to have more money!" His fists clenched and his face flushed. He thought of cattle, of the ox-making bank, of being driven from pen A into pen B, and, in the end, fertilizer. "I've got to!" he repeated, thickly.
"You won't get it, take it from me. To ask for it now simply means being instantly fired."
"Being fired" sounded so much like being freed that Hendrik retorted, pleasantly:
"Mr. Coster, you may yet live to take your orders from me, if I am fired. But if I stay here, you never will; that's sure."
The cashier flushed angrily, opened his mouth, magnanimously closed it, and, with a shrug of his shoulders, preceded Hendrik Rutgers into the private office of the president.
"Mr. Goodchild," said Coster, so deferentially that Hendrik looked at him in surprise for a full minute before the surprise changed into contempt.
Mr. Goodchild, the president, did not even answer. He frowned, deliberately walked to a window and stared out of it sourly. A little deal of his own had gone wrong, owing to the stupidity of a subordinate.
He had lost money!
He was a big man with jowls and little puffs under the eyes; also suspicions of purple in cheeks and nose and suspicions of everybody in his eyes. Presently he turned and spat upon the intruders. He did it with one mild little word:
"Well?"
He then confined his scowl to the cashier. The clerk was a species of the human dirt that unfortunately exists even in banks and has to be apologized for to customers at times, when said dirt, before arrogance, actually permits itself vocal chords.
They spoil the joy of doing business, damn 'em!
"This is the K-L ledger clerk," said Coster. "He wants a raise in salary. I told him 'No,' and he then insisted on seeing you." Years of brooding over the appalling possibility of having to look for another job had made the cashier a skilful shirker of responsibilities. He always spoke to the president as if he were giving testimony under oath.
"When one of these chaps, Mr. Coster," said the president in the accusing voice bank presidents use toward those borrowers whose collateral is inadequate, "asks for a raise and doesn't get it he begins to brood over his wrongs. People who think they are underpaid necessarily think they are overworked. And that is what makes socialists of them!"
He glared at the cashier, who acquiesced, awe-strickenly: "Yes, sir!"
"As a matter of fact," pursued the president, still accusingly, "we should reduce the bookkeeping force. Dawson tells me that at the Metropolitan National they average one clerk to two hundred and forty-two accounts. The best we've ever done is one to one hundred and eighty-eight. Reduce! Good morning."
"Mr. Goodchild," said Hendrik Rutgers, approaching the president, "won't you please listen to what I have to say?"
Mr. Goodchild was one of those business men who in their desire to conduct their affairs efficiently become mind-readers in order to save precious time. He knew what Rutgers was going to say, and therefore anticipated it by answering:
"I am very sorry for the sickness in your family. The best I can do is to let you remain with us for a little while, until whoever is sick is better." He nodded with great philanthropy and self-satisfaction.
But Hendrik said, very earnestly: "If I were content with my job I wouldn't be worth a whoop to the bank. What makes me valuable is that I want to be more. Every soldier of Napoleon carried a marshal's baton in his knapsack. That gave ambition to Napoleon's soldiers, who always won. Let your clerks understand that a vice-presidency can be won by any of us and you will see a rise in efficiency that will surprise you. Mr. Goodchild, it is a matter of common sense to—"
"Get out!" said the president.
Ordinarily he would have listened. But he had lost money; that made him think only of one thing—that he had lost money!
The general had suddenly discovered that his fortress was not impregnable! He did not wish to discuss feminism.
Of course, Hendrik did not know that the president's request for solitude was a confession of weakness and, therefore, in the nature of a subtle compliment. And therefore, instead of feeling flattered, Hendrik saw red. It is a common mistake. But anger always stimulated his faculties. All men who are intelligent in their wrath have in them the makings of great leaders of men. The rabble, in anger, merely becomes the angry rabble—and stays rabble.
Hendrik Rutgers aimed full at George G. Goodchild, Esq., a look of intense astonishment.
"Get out!" repeated the president.
Hendrik Rutgers turned like a flash to the cashier and said, sharply: "Didn't you hear? Get out!"
"You!" shouted Mr. George G. Goodchild.
"Who? Me?" Hendrik's incredulity was abysmal.
"Yes! You!" And the president, dangerously flushed, advanced threateningly toward the insolent beast.
"What?" exclaimed Hendrik Rutgers, skeptically. "Do you mean to tell me you really are the jackass your wife thinks you?"
Fearing to intrude upon private affairs, the cashier discreetly left the room. The president fell back a step. Had Mrs. Goodchild ever spoken to this creature? Then he realized it was merely a fashion of speaking, and he approached, one pudgy fist uplifted. The uplift was more for rhetorical effect than for practical purposes, which has been a habit with most uplifts since money-making became an exact science. But Hendrik smiled pleasantly, as his forebears always did in battle, and said:
"If I hit you once on the point of the jaw it'll be the death-chair for mine. I am young. Please control yourself."
"You infernal scoundrel!"
"What has Mrs. Goodchild ever done to me, that I should make her a widow?" You could see he was sincerely trying to be not only just, but judicial.
The president of the bank gathered himself together. Then, as one flings a dynamite bomb, he utterly destroyed this creature. "You are discharged!"
"Tut, tut! I discharged the bank ages ago; I'm only waiting for the bank to pack up. Now you listen to me."
"Leave this room, sir!" He said it in that exact tone of voice.
But Hendrik did not vanish into thin air. He commanded, "Take a good look at me!"
The president of the bank could not take orders from a clerk in class B. Discipline must be maintained at any cost. He therefore promptly turned away his head. But Hendrik drew near and said:
"Do you hear?"
There was in the lunatic's voice something that made Mr. George G. Goodchild instantly bethink himself of all the hold-up stories he had ever heard. He stared at Hendrik with the fascination of fear.
"What do you see?" asked Rutgers, tensely. "A human soul? No. You see K-L. You think machinery means progress, and therefore you don't want men, but machines, hey?"
The
