Buckaroo of Blue Wells
I—BOOKKEEPERS
James Eaton Legg hooked his heels over the rounds of his high stool,stretched wearily and looked out through the none-too-clean windows towhere a heavy fog almost obscured the traffic. Heavy trucks lumberedpast, grinding harshly over the cobbles. Somewhere a street-carmotorman did a trap-drum effect on his gong; a ferry boat whistledboomingly. And there was the incessant roar of the every-day noises ofthe commercial district.
James Eaton Legg was not a prepossessing person. He was less thanthirty years of age, slightly beneath medium height, slender. His facewas thin, rather boyish, his mild blue eyes hidden behind a pair ofglasses. His mouth was wide, and when he yawned wearily he showed agood set of teeth.
For several years James had been a bookkeeper with Mellon & Co.,Wholesale Grocers, San Francisco—and he was still acting in the samecapacity. His slightly stooped shoulders attested to the fact thatJames had bent diligently over his work. Whether fortunately, orunfortunately, James was an orphan. His mother had died while he wasstill very young, and when James had just finished high school, hisfather had gone the way of all flesh.
James was cognizant of the fact that somewhere in the world he hadsome relatives, but that fact caused him little concern. He rememberedthat his mother had a sister, who was well endowed with worldly goods,and he also remembered that his father had said that his Aunt Marthawould probably die with all her wealth intact.
James turned from his contemplation of the foggy street, and his blueeyes studied the occupants of the big office. There was Henry Marsh,humped like an old buzzard, his long nose close to the ledger page, ashe had been the first time James had seen him. He had grown old withMellon & Co.—so old that he worried about his job.
There were younger men, working adding machines, delving in accounts;preparing themselves for a life of drudgery. Over in the cashier’scage was David Conley, frozenfaced, pathetic; as old as Mellon & Co.James shuddered slightly. If he lived to be seventy, and workedfaithfully, he might occupy that cage.
James was being paid the munificent sum of seventy dollars a month. Hehappened to know that David Conley drew one hundred and fifty dollarsin his monthly envelope. James shook his head and shifted his gazeback to the window. He did not feel like working. It all seemed souseless; this idea of putting down figures and adding them up; eating,sleeping, and coming back to put down more figures.
He turned from contemplation of the wet street, and looked at BlairMellon, senior member of the firm, who had come in from his privateoffice. He was nearing seventy, thin, stooped, irascible. Nothingseemed to please him. His beady eyes shifted from one employee toanother, as he walked slowly. He had made a success of business, but awreck of himself. The boys of the firm called him “Caucus,” because ofthe fact that once a week he would hold a caucus in the office, atwhich time he would impress upon them the fact that the firm waseverything, and that nothing else mattered.
He would invite suggestions from department heads, and when an ideadid not please him he would fly into a rage. James Eaton Legg mildlysuggested at one of the caucuses that the firm supply each bookkeeperwith a fountain pen, in order to economize on lost motions—and nearlylost his job. Not because of trying to increase the efficiency of thebookkeeping department, but b