Broken to the Plow | Page 2

pretense offered up as a sacrifice upon the altar
of appearances. His mother had never been a spendthrift and certainly

one could not convict Helen on such a charge. But they both had one
thing in common--they "had to have things" for almost any and every
occasion. If a trip were planned or a dancing party arranged or a tea
projected--well, one simply couldn't go looking like a fright, and that
was all there was to it. His father never thought to argue such a
question. Women folks had to have clothes, and so he accepted the
situation with the philosophy born of bowing gracefully to the
inevitable. But Starratt himself occasionally voiced a protest.
"Nothing to wear?" he would echo, incredulously. "Why, how about
that pink dress? That hasn't worn out yet."
"No, that's just it! It simply won't! I'm sick and tired of putting it on.
Everybody knows it down to the last hook and eye... Oh, well, I'll stay
home. It isn't a matter of life and death. I've given things up before."
When a woman took that tone of martyrdom there really was nothing to
do but acknowledge defeat. Other men were able to provide frocks for
their wives and he supposed he ought to be willing to do the same thing.
There was an element of stung pride in his surrender. He had the
ingrained Californian's distaste for admitting, even to himself, that
there was anything he could not afford. And in the end it was this
feeling rising above the surface of his irritation which made him a bit
ashamed of his attitude toward Helen's dinner party. After all, it would
be the same a thousand years from now. A man couldn't have his cake
and eat it, and a man like Brauer must live a dull sort of life. What
could be the use of saving money if one forgot how to spend it in the
drab process? As a matter of fact, old Wetherbee wouldn't gobble him.
He'd grunt or grumble or even rave a bit, but in the end he would yield
up the money. He always did. And suddenly, while his courage had
been so adroitly screwed to the sticking point, he went over to old
Wetherbee's desk without further ado.
The cashier was absorbed in adding several columns of figures and he
let Starratt wait. This was not a reassuring sign. Finally, when he
condescended to acknowledge the younger man's presence he did it
with the merest uplift of the eyebrows. Starratt decided at once against
pleasantries. Instead, he matched Wetherbee's quizzical pantomime by

throwing the carefully written IOU tag down on the desk.
Wetherbee tossed the tag aside. "You got twenty-five dollars a couple
of days ago!" he bawled out suddenly.
Starratt was surprised into silence. Old Wetherbee was sometimes
given to half-audible and impersonal grumblings, but this was the first
time he had ever gone so far as to voice a specific objection to an
appeal for funds.
"What do you think this is?" Wetherbee went on in a tone loud enough
to be heard by all the office force. "The Bank of England?... I've got
something else to do besides advance money every other day to a
bunch of joy-riding spendthrifts. In my day a young man ordered his
expenditures to suit his pocketbook. We got our salary once a month
and we saw to it that it lasted... What's the matter--somebody sick at
home?"
Starratt could easily have lied and closed the incident quickly, but an
illogical pride stirred him to the truth.
"No," he returned, quietly, "I'm simply short. We're having some
company in for dinner and there are a few things to get--cigars
and--well, you know what."
Wetherbee threw him a lip-curling glance. "Cigars? Well, twopenny
clerks do keep up a pretty scratch and no mistake. In my day--"
Starratt cut him short with an impatient gesture.
"Times have changed, Mr. Wetherbee."
"Yes, I should say they have," the elder man sneered, as he reached for
the key to the cash drawer.
For a moment Starratt felt an enormous relief at the old man's
significant movement. He was to get the money, after all! But almost at
once he was moved to sudden resentment. What right had Wetherbee to

humiliate him before everybody within earshot? He knew that the eyes
of the entire force were being leveled at him, and he felt a surge of
satisfaction as he said, very distinctly:
"Don't bother, Mr. Wetherbee... It really doesn't make the slightest
difference. I'll manage somehow."
Old Wetherbee shrugged and went on adding figures. Starratt felt
confused. The whole scene had fallen flat. His suave heroics had not
even made Wetherbee feel cheap. He went back to his desk.
Presently a hand rested upon his shoulder. He