Our Mr Wrenn | Page 3

Sixth Avenue. In the office he chuckled at
his ink-well and the untorn blotters on his orderly desk. Though he sat
under the weary unnatural brilliance of a mercury-vapor light, he
dashed into his work, and was too keen about this business of living
merrily to be much flustered by the bustle of the lady buyer's superior
"Good morning." Even up to ten-thirty he was still slamming down
papers on his desk. Just let any one try to stop his course, his readiness
for snapping fingers at The Job; just let them try it, that was all he
wanted!
Then he was shot out of his chair and four feet along the corridor, in
reflex response to the surly "Bur-r-r-r-r" of the buzzer. Mr. Mortimer R.
Guilfogle, the manager, desired to see him. He scampered along the
corridor and slid decorously through the manager's doorway into the
long sun-bright room, ornate with rugs and souvenirs. Seven Novelties
glittered on the desk alone, including a large rococo Shakespeare-style
glass ink-well containing cloves and a small iron Pittsburg-style one
containing ink. Mr. Wrenn blinked like a noon-roused owlet in the
brilliance. The manager dropped his fist on the desk, glared, smoothed
his flowered prairie of waistcoat, and growled, his red jowls quivering:
"Look here, Wrenn, what's the matter with you? The Bronx Emporium
order for May Day novelties was filled twice, they write me."
"They ordered twice, sir. By 'phone," smiled Mr. Wrenn, in an agony of
politeness.
"They ordered hell, sir! Twice--the same order?"
"Yes, sir; their buyer was prob--"
"They say they've looked it up. Anyway, they won't pay twice. I know,
em. We'll have to crawl down graceful, and all because you--I want to
know why you ain't more careful!"
The announcement that Mr. Wrenn twice wriggled his head, and once
tossed it, would not half denote his wrath. At last! It was here--the time
for revolt, when he was going to be defiant. He had been careful; old
Goglefogle was only barking; but why should he be barked at? With his

voice palpitating and his heart thudding so that he felt sick he declared:
"I'm _sure_, sir, about that order. I looked it up. Their buyer was
drunk!"
It was done. And now would he be discharged? The manager was
speaking:
"Probably. You looked it up, eh? Um! Send me in the two
order-records. Well. But, anyway, I want you to be more careful after
this, Wrenn. You're pretty sloppy. Now get out. Expect me to make
firms pay twice for the same order, cause of your carelessness?"
Mr. Wrenn found himself outside in the dark corridor. The manager
hadn't seemed much impressed by his revolt.
The manager wasn't. He called a stenographer and dictated:
"Bronx Emporium:
"GENTLEMEN:--Our Mr. Wrenn has again (underline that `again,'
Miss Blaustein), again looked up your order for May Day novelties. As
we wrote before, order certainly was duplicated by 'phone. Our Mr.
Wrenn is thoroughly reliable, and we have his records of these two
orders. We shall therefore have to push collection on both--"
After all, Mr. Wrenn was thinking, the crafty manager might be merely
concealing his hand. Perhaps he had understood the defiance. That
gladdened him till after lunch. But at three, when his head was again
foggy with work and he had forgotten whether there was still April
anywhere, he began to dread what the manager might do to him.
Suppose he lost his job; The Job! He worked unnecessarily late, hoping
that the manager would learn of it. As he wavered home, drunk with
weariness, his fear of losing The Job was almost equal to his desire to
resign from The Job.
He had worked so late that when he awoke on Sunday morning he was
still in a whirl of figures. As he went out to his breakfast of coffee and
whisked wheat at the Hustler Lunch the lines between the blocks of the
cement walk, radiant in a white flare of sunshine, irritatingly recalled
the cross-lines of order-lists, with the narrow cement blocks at the curb
standing for unfilled column-headings. Even the ridges of the Hustler
Lunch's imitation steel ceiling, running in parallel lines, jeered down at
him that he was a prosaic man whose path was a ruler.
He went clear up to the branch post-office after breakfast to get the
Sunday mail, but the mail was a disappointment. He was awaiting a

wonderful fully illustrated guide to the Land of the Midnight Sun, a
suggestion of possible and coyly improbable trips, whereas he got only
a letter from his oldest acquaintance--Cousin John, of Parthenon, New
York, the boy-who-comes-to-play of Mr. Wrenn's back-yard days in
Parthenon. Without opening the letter Mr. Wrenn tucked it into his
inside coat pocket, threw away his toothpick, and turned to Sunday