He pulled a string that turned on the two hundred watt bulb which hung in the center of the office. Donald stood up and turned around slowly, painfully conscious that every defect in his worn clothes was visible under the harsh white light.
“You’re clean enough. But your hair! Do you have the price of a barber on you? ’Tis sticking down the back of your collar. This is no hash slinging job, and they’re wanting me to send a man for them to look at this evening. I’m half in mind to take a chance on you.”
“I have just a quarter left.” Don fingered the lone coin in his pocket. “I have to eat. That is—”
O’Shanigan turned him around again under the light. “’Tis the build of a prize fighter you have on you. Can you use your mitts?”
“I was considered pretty good in college. I’ve even considered trying to get in the ring. The engineering hasn’t been too happy.”
The idea seemed to please O’Shanigan. He nodded his head approvingly. Then he came to a sudden decision.
“Maybe ’tis you’re a better engineer than you are a waiter. I’m going to send you to see the old man. He’s a hellion, but I worked for him for five years in his bank.” He noticed Don’s expression of skepticism, and explained with a grin: “As a special cop. That’s how I come to get his business. Go downstairs to the barber underneath and get him to take off some of that hair. I’ll be down in a few minutes and give you a note. I want to call up and see if it’s O.K. for you to go to the house.” Don hesitated, and O’Shanigan added: “I’ll pay for the haircut. I think you’ll get the job.” Don was part way down the steps when he heard O’Shanigan say, almost prayerfully: “God help you!”
The barber had nearly finished his job, and the boy was getting worried, when O’Shanigan entered the shop. He walked critically around the chair, and finished by ordering the negro bootblack to shine Don’s worn shoes. Ever after, Donald Buchanan had a warn spot in his heart for the shrewd Irishman who was willing to gamble a little money to make him presentable enough to get a job. When they left the shop together, even the drenched dismalness of Sixth Avenue in the forties failed to dampen Don’s spirits.
O’Shanigan handed Don a white envelope as soon as they were outside the door. “’Tis high social registers you’ll be visiting. None other than old man Aaron Tuckerton. The banker, you know. Tuckerton and Brennan.”
“I’m to go there now? To his house?”
“Right you are, boy. Take a bus up Fifth Avenue. You’ll be seeing it right opposite the park. He’ll browbeat you, and ’tis not me can tell you how to handle him. Whatever you do is most like to be wrong. ’Tis luck I’m wishing you—and meself, for there’s none pays better if you can please him. He’s paralyzed—or the one half of him is—but the other half of him is mean enough to make up for it. I’m warning you not to pay too much attention if he abuses you a bit. ’Tis a grand chance.”
“It sounds like it,” Don said doubtfully. “He must be a regular pal to work for—from your description. But I’ll do my best, Mr. O’Shanigan. I appreciate—”
“Off you go now. ’Tis a week’s pay will be the appreciation.” Don started across the street, and O’Shanigan called after him: “Don’t let him bluff you on money. Ask a fair salary and stick to it. He’ll pay it if he wants you.” Don waved his hand in acknowledgment “And don’t be scared of old Aaron. ’Tis the son and the daughter you’ll find are much worse.” With which reassuring statement O’Shanigan disappeared into the crowd. Elated, Donald went on his way, not knowing he was being followed by two men who were watching every move he made.
He was filled with conflicting emotions as the Fifth Avenue bus pushed and nosed its cumbersome bulk through the heavy traffic. It was never easy for him to face a prospective employer. He strengthened himself, now, by fingering the fifteen cents left out of his last quarter, and mentally picturing the delights of a winter spent in Florida. Even though he was to be only a small cog in the Tuckerton ménage, he would be warm and well fed. There could be no choice between that and a winter as a penniless derelict on the streets of New York.
In spite of his determination to make at least a try for the job, an overwhelming diffidence took possession of him as soon as he had rung the doorbell. The marble mansion, which occupied nearly a whole block in the seventies, was formidable enough to wealthy guests. It was almost overpowering to Donald, penniless and needing work. He was saved from running away by the opening of the door. He did not know what type of monster he had expected to greet him, but the sight of a grinning negro butler calmed him down like a douche of cold water.
It was Donald’s first sight of Sam Knox, Aaron’s efficient servant. Later Donald admitted that no better butler than Sam ever lived, nor any man with a finer character. Sam put the hesitant visitor instantly at ease. Mr. Tuckerton was waiting for him in the library. Would he come right in? Don’s dripping hat and coat were removed with as much ceremony as if he had been an honored guest for dinner. He followed Sam across a large comfortable hall, heard his name announced, and a door close softly behind him. He was facing a huge man, sunk in a soft down chair in front of a roaring fire. He needed no one to tell him this was Aaron Tuckerton.
There was no greeting, no friendly word to mitigate Donald’s acute discomfort, fiercely aroused in
