was a little puzzled by this speech. It was unexpected. The steady, hardworking clerk, who had been so reliable, and whom he had greatly esteemed, might easily have met his suggestion with resentment. Indeed, he had expected him to do so. But, on the contrary, Sainsbury seemed even eager to retire from the service of the company.
Charlesworth was, of course, ignorant of the conditions of Dr Jerrold’s will, or of those words Jack Sainsbury had overheard as he had entered the boardroom. Vernon Charlesworth had been a servant of the Ochrida Copper Corporation ever since its formation eighteen years ago — long before the “new blood” represented by the Huntley-Rodwell combination had been “brought into” it. From the first inception of the company the public, who had put their modest savings into it, had lost their money. Yet recently, by the bombastic and optimistic speeches of Sir Boyle Huntley at the Cannon Street Hotel, and the self-complacent smiles of Lewin Rodwell at the meetings, confidence had been inspired, and it was still a going concern — one which, if the truth be told, Huntley and Rodwell were working to get into their own hands.
“Of course I am really very sorry to part with you, Sainsbury,” the manager said, leaning back in his chair and looking at him. “You’ve been a most trustworthy servant, yet I, of course, have to abide by the decision of the board.”
Jack Sainsbury smiled.
“No, please don’t apologise, Mr Charlesworth,” he said, with a faint smile. “I daresay I shall soon find some other employment more congenial to me.”
“I hope so,” replied the manager, peering at the young man through his horn-rimmed glasses — a style affected in official circles. “Nowadays, with so many men at the front, it is not really a difficult matter to find a post in the City. It seems to me that the slacker has the best of it.”
“I’m not a slacker, though you may think I am, Mr Charlesworth,” cried Jack, reddening. “A month after war was declared I went to the recruiting office fully prepared to enlist. But, unfortunately, they rejected me as medically unfit.”
“Did they?” exclaimed the other in surprise. “You never told us that!”
“Was it necessary? I merely tried to do my duty. But — ” and he paused, and then, in a meaning voice, he added: “If I can’t do my duty out in the trenches, I can at least do it here, at home.”
“If it is true that you’ve been already rejected as unfit,” exclaimed Charlesworth, “I daresay I might induce the directors to reconsider their decision.”
“No, sir,” was Sainsbury’s proud reply. “I will not trouble you to do that. It is quite apparent that, for some unknown reason, they wish to dismiss me. Therefore I consider myself dismissed — and, to tell you the truth, I don’t regret it. But, before I go, I would like to thank you and the staff for all the kindness and consideration shown to me during my illness a year ago.”
“Then you refuse to stay?” asked Charlesworth, rather puzzled, for he held Sainsbury in high esteem.
“Yes. Before dismissing me I consider that the directors should have inquired whether I had tried to enlist,” he answered resentfully.
“Then I suppose there is no more to say. Shall you remain till the end of the week?”
“No, sir. I intend to go now. It would not, I think, be a very happy seven days for me if I remained, would it?”
Charlesworth sighed. He was sorry to lose the services of such a bright, shrewd and clever young man.
“Very well,” he replied regretfully. “If that is really so, Sainsbury, I must wish you good-bye,” and with frankness he stretched forth his hand, which the young man took, and then turned on his heel and left the manager’s room.
While Jack Sainsbury was on his way through the bustle of Gracechurch Street, Lewin Rodwell, who had been upstairs at a meeting of the board, descended and entered Charlesworth’s room, closing the door after him.
“Well,” he asked carelessly, after chatting upon several important business matters, “have you spoken yet to young Sainsbury?”
“Yes. And he’s gone.”
Lewin Rodwell drew a sigh of relief.
“He ought to enlist — a smart, athletic fellow like that! Such men are just what England wants to-day, Charlesworth. I hope you gave him a good hint — eh?”
“I did. But it seems that he has already endeavoured to enlist, but was rejected — a defective arm.”
Lewin Rodwell was silent — but only for a few seconds.
“Well, never mind; he’s gone. We must reduce the staff — it is quite imperative in these days. What about those six others? Staff reduction will mean increased profits, you know.”
“They all have notice. I’m sorry about Carew. He has an invalid wife and seven children. His salary is only two pounds fifteen.”
“I’m afraid we can’t help that, Charlesworth,” replied the man who posed in the West End as the great self-denying patriot who hobnobbed with, Cabinet Ministers. “We must reduce the staff, if we’re going to pay a dividend. He’ll get work — munition-making or something. Sentiment is out of place in these war-days.”
And yet, only two days before, the speaker had made a brilliant speech at a Mansion House meeting in which he had beaten the patriotic drum loudly, and appealed to all employers of labour to increase wages because of the serious rise in food-prices. Charlesworth knew this, but made no remark. It was not to his interest to thwart the great Lewin Rodwell, or his place-seeking sycophant Sir Boyle Huntley, who had been put by his friend into the position he now held.
Truly the City is a strange, complex world of unpatriotic, hard-hearted money-seeking — a world where the Anglo-German or the swindling financier waxes rich quickly, and where the God-fearing Englishman goes to a Rowton House ousted by the “peaceful penetration” of our “dear kind friends” the Germans.
Those who have known the City for the past ten years or so know full well — ay, they know, alas! too well — the way in which Germany has prepared us for the financial aspect of the war. In the light of current events much has been made plain that was hitherto shrouded in mystery. We have seen plainly the subtle methods of the enemy.
Lewin Rodwell and his catspaw, Sir Boyle, were only typical of dozens of others in that little area from Temple Bar to Aldgate, the men who were working for Germany both prior to the war and after.
Charlesworth, to do him full credit, was an honest Englishman. Yet such a man was bound to be employed by our enemies as a safeguard against inquiry, and in order to avert suspicion. City men, like Charlesworth, might be patriotic to the backbone, yet when it became a matter of choosing between bread-and-cheese and starvation, as in his own case, the matter of living at Wimbledon on two thousand a year appealed to him, in preference to cold mutton and lodgings in Bloomsbury.
Germans, with or without assumed English names, controlled our finances, our professions, our hotels, nay, our very lives, wherefore it was hardly surprising that we were unable, in the first few months of war, to rid ourselves of that disease known as “German measles.”
“I must say I’m sorry about Carew,” remarked Charlesworth. “He’s been with us ever since the formation of the Company — and you recollect we
