The Wall Street Girl. Bartlett Frederick Orin
inquired Don.
“He’s the gent what sees every one,” explained the boy. “Ticker’s over there.”
He pointed to a small machine upon a stand, which was slowly unfurling from its mouth a long strip of paper such as prestidigitators produce from silk hats. Don crossed to it, and studied the strip with interest. It was spattered with cryptic letters and figures, much like those he had learned to use indifferently well in a freshman course in chemistry. The only ones he recalled just then were H2O and CO2, and he amused himself by watching to see if they turned up.
“Mr. Pendleton?”
Don turned to find a middle-aged gentleman standing before him with outstretched hand.
“Mr. Barton wrote to us about you,” Farnsworth continued briskly. “I believe he said you had no business experience.”
“No,” admitted Don.
“Harvard man?”
Don named his class.
“Your father was well known to us. We are willing to take you on for a few months, if you wish to try the work. Of course, until you learn something of the business you won’t be of much value; but if you’d like to start at–say twenty-five dollars a week–why, we’d be glad to have you.”
At the beginning Don had a vague notion of estimating his value at considerably more; but Mr. Farnsworth was so decided, it did not seem worth while. At that moment, also, he was reminded again that he had not yet breakfasted.
“Thanks,” he replied. “When shall I begin?”
“Whenever you wish. If you haven’t anything on to-day, you might come in now, meet some of the men, and get your bearings.”
“All right,” assented Don.
Within the next five minutes Farnsworth had introduced him to Blake and Manson and Wheaton and Powers and Jennings and Chandler. Also to Miss Winthrop, a very busy stenographer. Then he left him in a chair by Powers’s desk. Powers was dictating to Miss Winthrop, and Don became engrossed in watching the nimbleness of her fingers.
At the end of his dictation, Powers excused himself and went out, leaving Don alone with Miss Winthrop. For a moment he felt a bit uncomfortable; he was not quite sure what the etiquette of a business office demanded in a situation of this sort. Soon, however, he realized that the question was solving itself by the fact that Miss Winthrop was apparently oblivious to his presence. If he figured in her consciousness any more than one of the office chairs, she gave no indication of it. She was transcribing from her notebook to the typewriter, and her fingers moved with marvelous dexterity and sureness. There was a sureness about every other movement, as when she slipped in a new sheet of paper or addressed an envelope or raised her head. There was a sureness in her eyes. He found himself quite unexpectedly staring into them once, and they didn’t waver, although he was not quite certain, even then, that they saw him. They were brown eyes, honest and direct, above a good nose and a mouth that, while retaining its girlish mobility, also revealed an unexpected trace of almost manlike firmness. It was a face that interested him, but, before he was able to determine in just what way, she finished her last letter and, rising abruptly, disappeared into a rear room. Presently she emerged, wearing a hat and coat.
It was, on the whole, a very becoming hat and a very becoming coat, though they would not have suited at all the critical taste of Frances Stuyvesant. But they had not been designed for that purpose.
Miss Winthrop paused to readjust a pin and the angle of her hat. Then she took a swift glance about the office.
“I guess the boys must have gone,” she said to Don. “This is the lunch hour.”
Don rose.
“Thank you for letting me know,” he replied cordially.
“Most of them get back at one,” she informed him.
“Then you think I may go out until then?”
“I don’t see why not. But I’d be back at one sharp if I were you.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Don gave her an opportunity to go out the door and disappear before he himself followed. He had a notion that she could have told him, had he asked, where in this neighborhood it was possible to get the most food for the least money. He had a notion, also, that such a question would not have shocked her. It was difficult to say by just what process he reached this conclusion, but he felt quite sure of it.
Don was now firmly determined to invest a portion of his thirteen cents in something to eat. It had no longer become a matter of volition, but an acute necessity. For twenty minutes he wandered about rather aimlessly; then, in a sort of alley, he found a dairy lunch where in plain figures coffee was offered at five cents a cup, and egg sandwiches at the same price. The place was well filled, but he was fortunate in slipping into a chair against the wall just as a man was slipping out. It was a chair where one broad arm served as a table. Next to him sat a young woman in a black hat, munching a chocolate éclair. She looked up as he sat down, and frowned. Don rose at once.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know you were here. Honest I didn’t.”
“Well, it’s a public lunch, isn’t it?” she inquired. “I’m almost through.”
“Then you don’t mind if I stay?”
“It’s no business of mine,” she said curtly.
“But I don’t want you to think I–I’m intruding.”
She glanced at him again.
“Let’s forget it,” she decided. “But you might sit there all day and you wouldn’t get anything to eat.”
He looked around, uncertain as to just what she meant.
“You go to the counter, pick out what you want, and bring it back here,” she explained. “I’ll hold your seat for you.”
Don made his way into the crowd at the rear. At the counter he found he had for ten cents a wide choice; but her éclair had looked so good he selected one of those and a cup of coffee. In returning he lost a portion of the coffee, but he brought the éclair through safely. He deposited it on the arm of the chair and sat down. In spite of his utmost effort at self-control, that éclair made just four mouthfuls. It seemed to him that he had no more than picked up his fork than it was gone. However, he still had his coffee, and he settled back to enjoy that in a more temperate fashion.
Without apparently taking the slightest interest in him, Miss Winthrop observed the rapidity with which he concluded his lunch. She knew something about being hungry, and if she was any judge that tidbit produced no more impression upon this six-foot man than a peanut on an elephant.
“That all you’re going to eat?” she demanded.
Don was startled. The question was both unexpected and pointed. He met her eyes–brown eyes and very direct. The conventional explanation that he had ready about not caring for much in the middle of the day seemed scarcely worth while.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Broke?” she inquired.
He nodded.
“Then you ought to have had an egg sandwich instead of one of those things,” she informed him.
“But the one you had looked so good,” he smiled.
“I had an egg sandwich to start with; this was dessert.”
“I didn’t know,” he apologized.
“You ought to get one now. You won’t last until night on just that.”
“How much are they?” he inquired.
“A nickel.”
“Then I guess I won’t have one.”
“Haven’t you five cents?” she cross-examined.
“Only three cents,” he answered.
“And