White Ashes | Page 9

that is meant primarily a fire insurance
man--is in New England no mean or casual thing. South, West, in the
newer and more open lands, where traditions are fewer and there is less
time for the dignities and observance of the amenities of commerce,
fire insurance takes its chance with a thousand other roads to an honest
dollar. If a Western lawyer has a few spare hours, he hangs out an
insurance sign and between briefs he or his clerk writes policies. The
cashier of the Farmers' State Bank in the prairie town ekes out his small
salary with the commissions he receives as agent for a few companies.
If a grist-mill owner or a storekeeper has a busy corner of two Southern
streets where passers-by congregate on market day, he gets the
representation of a fire company or two, and from time to time sends in
a risk to the head office, whose underwriters go nearly frantic in
endeavoring to decipher the hidden truth in the dusty reports of these
well-intentioned amateurs.
But it is not so in New England. In New England fire insurance reaches
its proudest estate. It is a profession, and to its true votaries almost a

religion. Its sons have, figuratively speaking, been born with a rate
book in one hand and a blank proof-of-loss clutched tightly in the other.
And in the mouth a silver spoon or not, as the case might be, but in any
event a conclusive argument for the superior loss-paying ability and
liberality in adjustment of the companies they respectively represent.
They are fire insurance men by birth, education, and tradition--they and
their fathers before them. Four generations back, Silas Osgood's family
had been supported by the staid old English public's fear of fire. Three
generations in Massachusetts had been similarly preserved from the
pangs of hunger. Likenesses of all four were hanging on the wall of Mr.
Osgood's office; as to identity the first two were highly questionable,
but their uniforms in the old prints showed up fresh and bright. In those
old days gentlemen only, men of education and station, whose
judgment and courage were beyond question, were intrusted with the
responsibility of fighting the flames. It is hard to say why this
important and exciting work should no longer attract the same sort of
men to its service.
Hanging beside the four generations were the commissions of the fire
companies locally represented in the Osgood office. Stout old
companies they were, too, for the most part; one of the older ones was
well in the second century of its triumph over fire and the fear of fire
and the ashes thereof; this was a foreign company which Osgood held
for old sake's sake. The other commissions bore American signatures,
most of them well known and well esteemed. On the wall right above
where Smith sat was the gold seal of his own company, the Guardian,
and against the seal the inexplicable hieroglyph which served Mr.
James Wintermuth for his presidential signature. Then there was the
great white sheet with the black border which set forth to all the world
by these presents that Silas Osgood and Company were the duly
accredited agents of the Atlantic Fire Insurance Company of Hartford,
Connecticut. The narrow placque of the old Birmingham Indemnity of
Birmingham, England, looked like a calling card beside the Atlantic's
flamboyant placard.
Smith, seeing Mr. Osgood's look fixed for a moment on the parchment
above his head, said inquiringly, "How long is it that you have

represented the Guardian in Boston?"
The older man smiled reflectively and turned his eyeglass in his hand
as he spoke.
"It was the year after the big fire when I first took the Guardian into my
office. You are a close enough student of the game to know that that
was just about forty years ago."
Smith nodded.
"Before Richard Smith was born. But I remember the date. Who
appointed you as agent?"
Mr. Osgood pointed to the scrawl at the foot of the framed commission.
"My old friend, James Wintermuth," he said. He paused a moment. "I
can almost see him now as he looked when he came to call on me--in
the old office farther down the street. Tall and quick-tempered, and you
can imagine how strong in the fingers he was in those days! I recall I
used to keep my glove on when I shook hands with him. He was a fine
young chap, was James. Perhaps a little too hasty for us conservative
New Englanders, but--" He broke off, a half-smile on his lips.
Smith remained silent.
"It's a fault you young New Yorkers are apt to have," the Bostonian
presently went on. "Most of you are a trifle aggressive for us over
here--just a bit radical."
The