his pocket. 'I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give this thing a trial

for a week or two, and at the end of that time I'll go to the boss and

see how he reacts when I ask for a rise of salary. If he crawls, it'll

show there's something in this. If he flings me out, it will prove the

thing's no good.'

We left it at that, and I am bound to say--owing, no doubt, to my not

having written for the booklet of the Memory Training Course advertised

on the adjoining page of the magazine--the matter slipped from my mind.

When, therefore, a few weeks later, I received a telegram from young

Mackintosh which ran:

    Worked like magic,

I confess I was intensely puzzled. It was only a quarter of an hour

before George himself arrived that I solved the problem of its meaning.

'So the boss crawled?' I said, as he came in.

He gave a light, confident laugh. I had not seen him, as I say, for

some time, and I was struck by the alteration in his appearance. In

what exactly this alteration consisted I could not at first have said;

but gradually it began to impress itself on me that his eye was

brighter, his jaw squarer, his carriage a trifle more upright than it

had been. But it was his eye that struck me most forcibly. The George

Mackintosh I had known had had a pleasing gaze, but, though frank and

agreeable, it had never been more dynamic than a fried egg. This new

George had an eye that was a combination of a gimlet and a searchlight.

Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, I imagine, must have been somewhat

similarly equipped. The Ancient Mariner stopped a wedding guest on his

way to a wedding; George Mackintosh gave me the impression that he

could have stopped the Cornish Riviera express on its way to Penzance.

Self-confidence--aye, and more than self-confidence--a sort of sinful,

overbearing swank seemed to exude from his very pores.

'Crawled?' he said. 'Well, he didn't actually lick my boots, because I

saw him coming and side-stepped; but he did everything short of that. I

hadn't been talking an hour when----'

'An hour!' I gasped. 'Did you talk for an hour?'

'Certainly. You wouldn't have had me be abrupt, would you? I went into

his private office and found him alone. I think at first he would have

been just as well pleased if I had retired. In fact, he said as much.

But I soon adjusted that outlook. I took a seat and a cigarette, and

then I started to sketch out for him the history of my connection with

the firm. He began to wilt before the end of the first ten minutes. At

the quarter of an hour mark he was looking at me like a lost dog that's

just found its owner. By the half-hour he was making little bleating

noises and massaging my coat-sleeve. And when, after perhaps an hour

and a half, I came to my peroration and suggested a rise, he choked

back a sob, gave me double what I had asked, and invited me to dine at

his club next Tuesday. I'm a little sorry now I cut the thing so short.

A few minutes more, and I fancy he would have given me his

sock-suspenders and made over his life-insurance in my favour.'

'Well,' I said, as soon as I could speak, for I was finding my young

friend a trifle overpowering, 'this is most satisfactory.'

Вы читаете The Clicking of Cuthbert
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату