Skinner's Dress Suit. Dodge Henry Irving
but were scheming against each other.
"Why the devil does he want to keep me on the rack for seven hours more?" thought Skinner on his way back to his cage. "Why could n't he say 'yes' or 'no'?"
Well, anyway, the die was cast. He was n't going to worry about it any more. Let McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., do that! The "cage man" opened his cash-book and went to work.
After Skinner had gone, McLaughlin rang the bell on his desk, and when the boy appeared, he said, "Ask Mr. Perkins please to step in here."
The junior partner, immaculately dressed and twirling his tawny mustache with a proper Harvard affectation of poise, entered a few moments later and found McLaughlin with his feet on the desk, staring ahead with humorous intentness.
"Well," said McLaughlin, "it's come at last!" With true Irish dramatic instinct, he paused, then plumped out, "Skinner's asked for a raise!"
He turned to note the effect of his words.
"What?" said the junior, taken by surprise, then hastening to suppress any suggestion of emotion. "That great, big, long-eared, over-grown rabbit? Did he dare come in here and beard the hound in his kennel?"
"He did that same," said McLaughlin, who had never quite lost his California vernacular.
"That hair of yours did n't scare him?"
McLaughlin grinned. "I guess it's lost its power." He got up and looked in the mirror over the mantel. "It is fierce, ain't it? I think I'll let it grow."
"Don't, Mac. It's your best asset as a bluffer." He shrugged his shoulders languidly. "You'd look like a philanthropist. They'd all be asking for a raise!"
"Wonder why he asked just now? He does n't know about that new contract with the Hudson & Erie people, does he?"
"Even if he did, he would n't dare to hold you up on it."
"He ain't that kind, is he?"
"No, Mac, it just occurred to him, that's all – it just occurred to him." Perkins paused, looked out of the window, then turned. "What do you think, Mac?"
"We can't start in raising salaries just now, Perk. If one gets it, the others 'll want it, too. They 'll all be dissatisfied."
"Don't do it – that's all."
McLaughlin reflected a moment. "Did you ever hear of such a thing as a worm turning?"
"Yes, but a worm does n't turn very fast. There'd be plenty of time to see the indications and head it off."
McLaughlin drummed with his paper-cutter. "Somehow, I 've always been afraid of worms. They 're so damned humble," he said presently.
Perkins laughed. "I believe you're afraid you 'll lose Skinner."
"Somebody might have got after him – Billings or Humphreys."
"Nobody's after a man that dresses like that!"
"But he might get after them."
"He does n't want to change. He has no ambition, no initiative. Take it from me, Mac, any man that wears such clothes has resigned himself to permanent, innocuous, uninteresting mediocrity."
"But – " McLaughlin protested.
Perkins cut him short. "Any man that wears clothes like a doormat will let you make a doormat of him!"
"That's just what puzzles me. A good-looking man – fine eyes and a figure. The only thing that stands between him and one of your Harvard dudes is a first-class tailor. Perk, why does he dress like that?"
"He began by skimping for that little house out in Meadeville. Then he got used to going without good clothes and he did n't care."
"It's notorious," McLaughlin commented.
"Nobody cares much whether a cashier in his cage is well dressed," said Perkins. "You can't see him below the waist-line. He might not have on either trousers or shoes for all the public knows or cares."
"What kind of a wife has he got?"
"She's just as thrifty as he is. They've got the poverty bug, I guess. Don't worry about Skinner, Mac. The fear of the poorhouse has kept many a good man in his place."
McLaughlin turned to Perkins. "But we can't afford to lose him. He's too honest, too faithful, too loyal."
"I know his value as well as you do, but we don't want to put wise goggles on him."
"We've got to raise him sometime," McLaughlin urged mildly.
"Yes, but we won't do it till we have to. If he were a salesman, he'd make us do it. But a man in a cage – why the very fact that he stays in a cage – can't you see?"
"Then you would n't do it?"
"Of course not!"
"But how?"
"Bluff him – in a tactful way. Let him think we've nothing but his welfare at heart; that we love him too much to stand in his way; that it's breaking our hearts to lose him. Still, if he can better himself we'll have to stand the pain. You're an old poker-player, Mac; you know how to handle the situation."
"But supposing you're mistaken in Skinner? Supposing he hangs out for a raise?"
"If he does, we'll have to give it to him. Offer him ten dollars a week more. But remember, Mac, only as a last resort!"
So when Skinner stepped in at five o'clock, McLaughlin made the bluff. Skinner did n't call it. Instead, he bowed submissively, almost with relief, and without a word left for home.
Everything contributed to the drab occasion for Skinner. The weather was bad, the ferryboat steamier and smellier than ever. As he took his seat in the men's cabin, he was full of drab reflections – disappointment, deep disgust. Abysmal gloom surrounded him. His thoughts were anything but flattering to his employers, or to himself, for that matter, for Skinner was a just man. They were the cussedest, meanest people that he'd ever known. But what was the matter with him, Skinner? Why had n't he made a fight for the raise? It was that old, disgusting timidity that had been a curse to him ever since he was a boy. Others had pushed ahead through sheer cheek, while he held back, inert, afraid to assert himself. By gad, why had n't he made a fight for a raise? They could only sack him, hand him the blue envelope!
Sack him! The thought brought back the days when he had wandered from office to office, a suppliant, taking snubs, glad to get anything to do. The memory of the snubs had made more or less of a slave of him, for Skinner was a proud man, a man of very respectable family. Perhaps he ought to be glad that McLaughlin had n't done any worse than refuse him a raise.
Skinner did not stop to think that it would be easier for him to get a job now than it had been in those suppliant days. He was now experienced, skillful, more level-headed. His honesty and loyalty were a by-word in the business district.
His thoughts took another turn, and he looked at himself in the mirror. Gad! He had all the earmarks of back-numberhood. His hair was gray at the temples and he was shabby, neat but shabby. But he was only thirty-eight, he reflected, – the most interesting period of a man's life; he was wise without being old. And he was not bad-looking. He studied the reflection of his face. The picturesqueness of youth was lined – not too deeply lined – by the engraving hand of experience. What was the matter with him, then? Why was he not more of a success? Was it because he had been a "cage man" too long, always taking orders, always acquiescing subserviently, never asserting?
He looked out of the window. The river was gray, everything was gray – nothing pleased him. But the river used to be blue, always blue, when he first crossed it, a buoyant youth. The river had n't changed. It was the same river he had always loved. Then the change must be in him, Skinner. Why had he gradually ceased to enjoy things? Who was to blame for the drab existence he was suffering? Was it the outside world or himself?
As a boy, things were new to him – that was why the river was blue. But there were many things new to him to-day – peoples, countries, customs – yes, a thousand things new and interesting right in New York, close at hand, if he'd only take the trouble to look them up. Why was his ability to appreciate failing? Other men,