The Making of Bobby Burnit. Chester George Randolph
sweeping out at six o’clock in the morning?” calmly interrupted Bobby. “I don’t like to stay up so late. No, Johnson, about the only thing I’m going to do to show my respect for the traditions of the house is to leave this desk just as it is, and hang an oil portrait of my father over it. And, by the way, isn’t there some little side room where I can have my office? I’m going into this thing very earnestly.”
Mr. Johnson and Mr. Applerod exchanged glances.
“The door just to the right there,” said Mr. Johnson, “leads to a room which is at present filled with old files of the credit department. No doubt those could be moved somewhere else.”
Bobby walked into that room and gaged its possibilities. It was a little small, to be sure, but it would do for the present.
“Just have that cleared out and a ’phone put in. I’ll get right down to business this afternoon and see about the fittings for it.” Then he looked at his watch once more. “By George!” he exclaimed, “I almost forgot that I was to see Nick Allstyne at the Idlers’ Club about that polo match. Just have one of your boys stand out at the curb along about twelve, will you, and tell my chauffeur to report at the club.”
Johnson eyed the closed door over his spectacles.
“He’ll be having blue suits and brass buttons on us two next,” he snorted.
“He don’t mean it at all that way,” protested Applerod. “For my part, I think he’s a fine young fellow.”
“I’ll give you to understand, sir,” retorted Johnson, violently resenting this imputed defection, “that he is the son of his father, and for that, if for nothing else, would have my entire allegiance.”
Bobby, meanwhile, feeling very democratic and very much a man of affairs, took a street-car to the Idlers’, and strode through the classic portals of that club with gravity upon his brow. Flaxen-haired Nick Allstyne, standing by the registry desk, turned to dark Payne Winthrop with a nod.
“You win,” he admitted. “I’ll have to charge it up to you, Bobby. I just lost a quart of the special to Payne that since you’d become immersed in the cares of business you’d not be here.”
Bobby was almost austere in his reception of this slight.
“Don’t you know,” he demanded, “that there is nobody who keeps even his social engagements like a business man?”
“That’s what I gambled on,” returned Payne confidentially, “but I wasn’t sure just how much of a business man you’d become. Nick, don’t you already seem to see a crease in Bobby’s brow?”
“No, that’s his regular polo crease,” objected lanky Stanley Rogers, joining them, and the four of them fell upon polo as one man. Their especially anxious part in the tournament was to be a grinding match against Willie Ashler’s crack team, and the point of worry was that so many of their fellows were out of town. They badly needed one more good player.
“I have it,” declared Bobby finally. It was he who usually decided things in this easy-going, athletic crowd. “We’ll make Jack Starlett play, but the only way to get him is to go over to Washington after him. Payne, you’re to go along. You always keep a full set of regalia here at the club, I know. Here, boy!” he called to a passing page. “Find out for us the next two trains to Washington.”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy with a grin, and was off like a shot. They had a strict rule against tipping in the Idlers’, but if he happened to meet Bobby outside, say at the edge of the curb where his car was standing, there was no rule against his receiving something there. Besides, he liked Bobby, anyhow. They all did. He was back in a moment.
“One at two-ten and one at four-twenty, sir.”
“The two-ten sounds about right,” announced Bobby. “Now, Billy, telephone to my apartments to have my Gladstone and my dress-suit togs brought down to that train. Then, by the way, telephone Leatherby and Pluscher to send up to my place of business and have Mr. Johnson show their man my new office. Have him take measurements of it and fit it up at once, complete. They know the kind of things I like. Really, fellows,” he continued, turning to the others, after he had patiently repeated and explained his instructions to the foggy but willing Billy, “I’m in serious earnest about this thing. Up to me, you know, to do credit to the governor, if I can.”
“Bobby, the Boy Bargain Baron,” observed Nick. “Well, I guess you can do it. All you need to do is to take hold, and I’ll back you at any odds.”
“We’ll all put a bet on you,” encouraged Stanley Rogers. “More, we’ll help. We’ll all get married and send our wives around to open accounts with you.”
In spite of the serious business intentions, the luncheon which followed was the last the city saw of Bobby Burnit for three days. Be it said to his credit that he had accomplished his purpose when he returned. He had brought reluctant Jack Starlett back with him, and together they walked into the John Burnit Store.
“New office fitted up yet, Johnson?” asked Bobby pleasantly.
“Yes, sir,” replied Johnson sourly. “Just a moment, Mr. Burnit,” and from an index cabinet back of him he procured an oblong gray envelope which he handed to Bobby. It was inscribed:
With a half-embarrassed smile, Bobby regarded that letter thoughtfully and carried it into the luxurious new office. He opened it and read it, and, still with that queer smile, passed it over to Starlett. This was old John Burnit’s message:
“I have seen a business work up to success, and afterward add velvet rugs and dainty flowers on the desk, but I never saw a successful business start that way.”
Bobby looked around him with a grin. There was a velvet rug on the floor. There were no flowers upon the mahogany desk, but there was a vase to receive them. For just one moment he was nonplussed; then he opened the door leading to the dingy apartment occupied by Messrs. Johnson and Applerod.
“Mr. Johnson,” said he, “will you kindly send out and get two dozen pink carnations for my room?”
Quiet, big Jack Starlett, having loaded and lit and taken the first long puff, removed his pipe from his lips.
“Bully!” said he.
CHAPTER III
OLD JOHN BURNIT’S ANCIENT ENEMY POINTS OUT THE WAY TO GRANDEUR
Mr. Johnson had no hair in the very center of his head, but, when he was more than usually vexed, he ran his fingers through what was left upon both sides of the center and impatiently pushed it up toward a common point. His hair was in that identical condition when he knocked at the door of Bobby’s office and poked in his head to announce Mr. Silas Trimmer.
“Trimmer,” mused Bobby. “Oh, yes; he is the John Burnit Store’s chief competitor; concern backs up against ours, fronting on Market Street. Show him in, Johnson.”
Jack Starlett, who had dropped in to loaf a bit, rose to go.
“Sit down,” insisted Bobby. “I’m conducting this thing all open and aboveboard. You know, I think I shall like business.”
“They tell me it’s the greatest game out,” commented Starlett, and just then Mr. Trimmer entered.
He was a little, wiry man as to legs and arms, but fearfully rotund as to paunch, and he had a yellow leather face and black eyes which, though gleaming like beads, seemed to have a muddy cast. Bobby rose to greet him with a cordiality in no degree abashed by this appearance.
“And what can we do for you, Mr. Trimmer?” he asked after the usual inanities of greeting had been exchanged.
“Take lunch with me,” invited Mr. Trimmer, endeavoring to beam, his heavy, down-drooping gray mustache remaining immovable in front of the deeply-chiseled smile that started far above the corners of his nose and curved around a display of yellow teeth. “I have just learned that you have taken over the business,