PAGE 9
His Stock In Trade
by
At eight o’clock, disguised behind a pair of blue goggles, Louis headed for Miss Monon’s door, glad that the cozy corner was so dimly lighted. When he arrived she bathed his battle-scarred features with hamamelis, which is just the same as Pond’s Extract, but doesn’t cost so much, and told him the other girls had acted foolishly. She was very sweet and gentle with him and young Mitchell, imperfect as was his vision, saw something in her he had never seen before.
A week went by, during which it seemed that all the railroads except the Monon had suddenly gone out of business. It was as if a strike had been declared. Another week passed and Mitchell’s sales were scarcely noticeable, so Mr. Comer called him in to ask:
“Is your ‘phone disconnected?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know the price of our goods?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t you sleep well at home?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then what has become of those pick-ups?”
“I seem to have lost–my trade.”
“Your ‘trade’! Bah! Young man, you’ve been dissipating. That expense account turned your head. You’ve been blowing in our money on your friends and you’ve let your customers go. If you can’t hold the railroad business we’ll get some fellow who can. Cut out your sewing-circle wine suppers and your box parties to the North Shore debutantes and get busy. You’ve got a week to make good. One week.”
There wasn’t the slightest chance, and Mitchell told Miss Monon so when Thursday came around. He told her all about that promised position on the road and what it meant to him, and then he told her that beginning Monday he’d have to hunt a new berth at twelve dollars per. She was very quiet, very sympathetic–so sympathetic, in fact, that he told her some other things which no young man on a diminishing salary should tell. She said little at the moment, but she did considerable thinking, and she got busy on her ‘phone early the next morning. The first number she called was the Santa Fe’s. When she had finished talking with Miss Dunlap that hempen-haired sentimentalist was dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief and blowing her nose, assuring Miss Monon, at the same time, that she was a dear and that it was all right now that she knew the truth. Miss Monon blushed prettily, thanked her, and confessed that she had felt it coming on for some time. Thereupon they took turns calling the others, from the Big Four to the C.&E.I.;, with the result that Mitchell’s wire began to heat up.
Phoebe Snow called him to say that she hadn’t meant what she said, that he was a good old scout, and that the rate clerk was sorry also, and wanted to stand treat for a Dutch lunch. Then she left an order for a ton and a half of engine bolts.
Miss Gratz cried a little when she heard Mitchell’s voice and told him to make his own price on forty kegs of washers and suit himself about delivery.
Miss Dunlap confessed that it was her pride which had spoken, and, anyhow, she knew altogether too much about marriage to take another chance. She’d rather have one man friend than three husbands.
One by one the flock returned, and Saturday night Mitchell sent five pounds of chocolates and a sheaf of red roses to the one who had made it all come out right. He got his share of business after that, and when the holidays came they brought him his promotion.
Murphy, who knew most of the facts, was the first to congratulate him. “Jove!” he said, “that little Monon lady saved your bacon, didn’t she? By. the way, you never told me what her name was.”
Young Mitchell’s cheeks assumed a shell-pink shade as he replied: “It doesn’t matter what her name was, it’s Mitchell now. We were married yesterday and–all the roads were represented at the wedding.”