FullReads

I

The telegraph messenger looked again at the address on the envelope in his hand, and then scanned the house before which he was standing. It was an old-fashioned building of brick, two stories high, with an attic above; and it stood in an old-fashioned part of lower New York, not far from the East River. Over the wide archway there was a small weather-worn sign, “Ramapo Steel and Iron Works;” and over the smaller door alongside was a still smaller sign, “Whittier, Wheatcroft & Co.”

When the messenger-boy had made out the name, he opened this smaller door and entered the long, narrow store. Its sides and walls were covered with bins and racks containing sample steel rails and iron beams, and coils of wire of various sizes. Down at the end of the store were desks where several clerks and book-keepers were at work.

As the messenger drew near, a red-headed office-boy blocked the passage, saying, somewhat aggressively, “Well?”

“Got a telegram for Whittier, Wheatcroft & Co.,” the messenger explained, pugnaciously thrusting himself forward.

“In there!” the office-boy returned, jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards the extreme end of the building, an extension, roofed with glass and separated by a glass screen from the space where the clerks were at work.

The messenger pushed open the glazed door of this private office, a bell jingled over his head, and the three occupants of the room looked up.

“Whittier, Wheatcroft & Co.?” said the messenger, interrogatively, holding out the yellow envelope.

“Yes,” responded Mr. Whittier, a tall, handsome old gentleman, taking the telegram. “You sign, Paul.”

The youngest of the three, looking like his father, took the messenger’s book, and, glancing at an old-fashioned clock which stood in the corner, he wrote the name of the firm and the hour of delivery. He was watching the messenger go out. His attention was suddenly called to subjects of more importance by a sharp exclamation from his father.

“Well, well, well,” said the elder Whittier with his eyes fixed on the telegram he had just read. “This is very strange–very strange indeed!”

“What’s strange?” asked the third occupant of the office, Mr. Wheatcroft, a short, stout, irascible-looking man with a shock of grizzly hair.

For all answer Mr. Whittier handed to Mr. Wheatcroft the thin slip of paper.

No sooner had the junior partner read the paper than he seemed angrier than was usual with him.

“Strange!” he cried. “I should think it was strange! confoundedly strange–and deuced unpleasant, too.”

“May I see what it is that’s so very strange?” asked Paul, picking up the despatch.

“Of course you may see it,” growled Mr. Wheatcroft; “and let us see what you can make of it.”

The young man read the message aloud: “Deal off. Can get quarter cent better terms. Carkendale.”

Then he read it again to himself. At last he said, “I confess I don’t see anything so very mysterious in that. We’ve lost a contract, I suppose; but that must have happened lots of times before, hasn’t it?”

“It’s happened twice before, this fall,” returned Mr. Wheatcroft, fiercely, “after our bid had been practically accepted and just before the signing of the final contract!”

“Let me explain, Wheatcroft,” interrupted the elder Whittier, gently. “You must not expect my son to understand the ins and outs of this business as we do. Besides, he has only been in the office ten days.”

“I don’t expect him to understand,” growled Wheatcroft. “How could he? I don’t understand it myself!”

“Close that door, Paul,” said Mr. Whittier. “I don’t want any of the clerks to know what we are talking about. Here are the facts in the case, and I think you will admit that they are certainly curious: Twice this fall, and now a third time, we have been the lowest bidders for important orders, and yet, just before our bid was formally accepted, somebody has cut under us by a fraction of a cent and got the job. First we thought we were going to get the building of the Barataria Central’s bridge over the Little Makintosh River, but in the end it was the Tuxedo Steel Company that got the contract. Then there was the order for the fifty thousand miles of wire for the Trans-continental Telegraph; we made an extraordinarily low estimate on that. We wanted the contract, and we threw off, not only our profit, but even allowances for office expenses; and yet five minutes before the last bid had to be in, the Tuxedo Company put in an offer only a hundred and twenty-five dollars less than ours. Now comes the telegram to-day. The Methuselah Life Insurance Company is going to put up a big building; we were asked to estimate on the steel framework. We wanted that work–times are hard and there is little doing, as you know, and we must get work for our men if we can. We meant to have this contract if we could. We offered to do it at what was really actual cost of manufacture–without profit, first of all, and then without any charge at all for office expenses, for interest on capital, for depreciation of plant. The vice-president of the Methuselah, the one who attends to all their real estate, is Mr. Carkendale. He told me yesterday that our bid was very low, and that we were certain to get the contract. And now he sends me this.” Mr. Whittier picked up the telegram again.