MOOSEHE/1RT JYM1GS1ZINE
10
The Incompetent
By WILL GREENFIELD
and over again. It racked his ears like an explosion of steam whistles. What in the world had given him the hot desire to ferret out intelligence where only ignorance dwelt? He was disgusted with himself and obscured with wrath as is the sun with cloud when Miss Dotterby knocked for admission, and came in at his growling summons.
“Mr. Eastwood,” she said bleakly, “that Miss Maltby is positively fighting with Miss Dobbs. She has insulted her repeatedly. I stood by and heard her.”
“So did I,” he rejoined quickly. “They were talking with all the profundity of three-year olds when I left. Send her to me. Miss Maltby, I mean, if that silly little Miss Dobbs has gone.
Ten minutes later Miss Maltby was before him, looking as worshipful as a flock of angels and when she spoke her voice chimed like unto little bells.
“You wished to see me, Mr. Dead-wood ? ״
Eastwood’s dry lips twisted into a wry smile.
“Have it your own way, north, south and westwood, log, dog or dead-wood,” he growled. “That’s what I got on you this afternoon—the dead wood. I heard what you said to Miss Dobbs.”
“You heard all?”
“I heard enough to convince me that I made a mistake in thinking you could ever become a competent saleslady. I trust I do not give you a sense of affront if I consider you aggressively incompetent.”
“I suppose I’m fired,” said Miss Maltby in a flat voice, quite devoid of inflection. “Repelled by censure, stung by derision, undone by treachery, fettered by systems, I am fired by wrath—in a double sense, if you please. I thought I had class, but to you it looks like steerage.”
“This is no time for joking,” said Eastwood with a frigid intonation. “I am afraid you will call me a sentimentalist; I am not. If what you told Miss Dotterby is true, you are dependent on your own earnings. I thought I could get you to show enough vestigial intelligence to remain here in a position that would save you from manu״l labor, but you, i\ot I, have faded. You are anything but obtuse, and you can use refined 11־!gunge, but you are—pardon mete, fresh and impudent. I am sorry.” ' ow well you do it! Fire me again, will you, please?” Her smile became a little sardonic. “Let me down easy—say I’m much too clever for a subordinate position and all the higher oifices are filled!”
“Miss Maltby, I understood you were a peer girl *who needed a position and it seems-----”
“Do I seem ungenerous? I appreciate your kindness•—don’t let me encroach on your good nature. I am deeply flattered and grateful for your interest. I am too frivolous, I know, but if I can’t joke with—oh, what’s the use ? A serious old martinet like yourself wouldn’t understand. Good bye, Mr.—Mr.—Mr. Logwood!” Eastwood shivered under the cold malice of her steely eyes, and though he tried to speak he could only make a sound like an emptying bath tub releasing its final suck of water. For something like three minutes he sat statue-like, gazing into space; then he suddenly flung on his coat and hat and dashed out of the office, rushing through the big department store with muttered complaints and imprecations.
Maxine Maltby had halted a square away from Gncy’s with the intention of taking an approaching trolley, when Eastwood caught up to her and gently but very firmly pu״hed her back onto the _ sidewalk, all the while emitting trivialities that were designed to de-(Continued on •page H)
dismissal.” The pathetic glint of her eyes bespoke an unsuspected depth of feeling and completed the absolute discomfiture of John Eastwood.
“Shall we have a compact then?” he asked softly, almost tenderly. “You will stay here on trial. When you have been here a week I am sure I shall observe a transformation. Speaking with all due respect, you must forget your looks, and I can promise you that you will not be forgotten. That is, I’m afraid, a very practical explanation.”
“It is admirably clear, Mr. South-wood. It is most kind of you, but are you sure the other girls will not think hardly of me when I tell them that I have been impertinent to Miss Dobbs and am getting another chance?”
“Keep your tongue to yourself!” he said harshly. “Why should you wish to expose yourself to misinterpretation? We—you and I—are impervious to certain rules.”
“What a pretty compliment, Mr. Northwood. I confess the rules don’t appeal to me and it’s fine to know we have some conclusions in common. May I go now, Mr.------”
“Eastwood, as I suspect you know full well. You surely understand my position, and I’i i certain your future conduct will she v that my leniency was not entirely l displaced. Good afternoon, Miss Mali by."
“You seem to take a mild interest in snakes, don’t you? Good afternoon, Mr. Logwood.”
As the door closed behind her East-wood snapped a pencil in half and dashed the fragments violently at his desk. Then he rose, shrugged into his top coat, took his hat and laughed a laugh that was meant to be reassuring; but his voice broke and turned to a ha’f-strang’ed squeal.
Miss Helen Dobbs was in Gaey’s the next afternoon. She had a slender, youthful figure, almost childish in its dainty prettiness, and she v ent straight up to Miss Maltby, ignoring the haggard efforts of Miss Dotterby to head her off. Eastwood chanced to be nearby, and he proceeded to make himself inconspicuous within earshot.
“Not on the job yet?” said Miss Helen Dobbs with a musical little laugh. “I fe’t a qualm of apprehension when that boss lady said she would report you to the main squeeze.”
“He says I’m intelligent and teachable,” was the retort. “Are you here to buy or in quest of something to amuse ?”
“Re careful, hussy! You were insolent enough yesterday. Don’t get gay with little me today—I’m feeling cross-grained. Yesterday I yielded to the ingratiating mood of the day, but watch your step! Any more back talk and I’ll c״ll that doddering antinue who reported you. I want to buy some photo envelopes and I want to pick them out myself. Do I make myself clear?”
Eastwood’s ears slanted eagerly for the answer to this. It came:
“As mud. I am lucki’y d׳'sengaged at the moment, so you won’t have an opportunity to inflict your hideous taste upon your deluded father. Now I’ll select whatever you want today and so make sure that your lamentable judgment won’t get a chance to exercise itself in the purchase of our incomparab’e wares. Let me have one of your brilliant flashes of sfienee and I’ll get on the job. If ever I allowed your taste to run riot over----”
That was as much of Miss Maltby’s staggering impudence as Eastwood could stand, and he made his way unobserved to his office, where he grimly sat down to await the complaint that was inevitab’e. He could hear that flood of ill-bred insolence over
faces; bright eyes had flashed on him like star beams; and now and then the hues of a dazzling complexion or the seductive outlines of a graceful figure had charmed him. But now such vague and passing impressions were suddenly drawn together in one focus —all his dreamy fancies of form and color took visible and complete manifestation in one living creature—and she stood before him!
In spite of his rough masculinity and deep determination, John Eastwood’s senses almost swooned at the ravishing vision. He shuffled some papers on his desk, dropped his eyes, coughed behind his hand.
“Er—Miss Maltby, have you been impertinent to customers?”
A soft, delicious gurgling laugh, and a voice that was liquid music.
“Why, no, sir. I tried to assist Miss Dobbs in the selection of some stationery. She wanted my opinion and I gave it.”
“You ridiculed her taste?”
“Can you imagine anything so horrible? I should say I gave her my sympathy and counsel. But my sense of humor is unquenchable, and she was absolutely funny.”
“Yes?” with elaborate dryness of tone. “It is a curious fact, but we expect our salespeople to be polite and courteous. Miss Dobbs is one of our best and most valued patrons.”
“Oh, if you will, then she is sweetness and light personified.” Miss Maltby laughed again, infectiously, and it seemed that, like the village smithy, she feared not any man. “I knew Miss Dobbs was rich and buys a lot here. It was most stupid of me to have forgotten it. Your attitude is one of disapproval, I can see, but I know you’ll give a poor girl another chance.”
The situation struck Eastwood as rather pathetic. He would have been more impressed, however, if he could have been sure that Miss Maltby’s glorious eyes were not laughing uproariously at him. There crept into his brain a strange thought—one which never before had received a second’s hospitality. This magnificent creature was incapable of gross stupidity; perhaps some great calamity had forced her, all unprepared, into a harsh, unfeeling world to earn her own living. In time she might learn; but had stupid girls of less attractive appearance received the same chance at his hands?
“You have been impertinent, I’m sure,” he rebuked her with a tonal stoutness that was wholly artificial. “I shall get Miss Dobbs’ version of the affair, and if the blame rests with you you will be looking for another position tomorrow. You are no better than other girls.”
“May I venture to ask what inference I am to draw from that? If I was sure it was unkindly meant I
would-----” she wasn’t laughing now,
and there were twin flames of anger in her marvelous eyes.
“Well, I meant that because you are rather attractive—that is, no indulgence will be shown you because of your beauty. What you need here is not looks but intelligence, and I’m afraid----”
“Please continue to be frank.”
“I’m afraid that you feel that you are entitled to more consideration on the strength of physical attractiveness.”
“Oh, you may be as scornful as you like! Pray don’t apologize! According to your lights, women and snakes travel on their shapes, and I agree with you thoroughly. But I want to be deMt with according to my merits, Mr. Westwood. Honestly and truly, I want to stay here. I hate to reflect upon the possible consequences of
“Well, I’ll leave her in your hands, Eastwood. Don’t decide until you see her, for she is as pretty as a picture.”
With these words Fulton, the employment manager of Gacy Brothers, tumbled out of the office of John East-wood, head of the stationery department of the same firm. Tumbled because a fat chuckle was bubbling on his lips. He had seen Maxine Maltby and that was enough.
If it had been Pulton’s intention to instantly prejudice Eastwood against Miss Maltby he could not possibly have achieved his purpose with more dispatch than by saying, “she’s as pretty as a picture.” Eastwood was not a woman hater—as what young man of four and twenty sincerely is?—but since assuming charge of the stationery department he had been quick to recognize that beauty unaccompanied by ability relied more on charm than on capacity, and above his desk was his motto, which read:	“Measure Mortals by
Merit.” He was greatly liked by his subordinates as well as his superiors for his strict impartiality in business relations, and the elder Gacy—old S. B. himself—frequently boasted that there wasn’t a pretty head in Eastwood’s department unoccupied by gray matter.
Fulton had frankly confessed that Miss Maltby had captured his horse, foot and guns. He had put her to work under Miss Dotterby, Eastwood’s assistant, because he could not find it in his heart to refuse her. He couldn’t tell whether she had experience or anything of her antecedents. Enthralled by her ineffable beauty and charm of manner, he had simply surrendered to the splendor of her general loveliness. And he had a comfortable, jocund hunch that John East-wood would do likewise.
Eastwood would have laughed at his friend’s supposed prediction, and it would have been a laugh with a note of scorn in it. He had little fear of losing his head over a pretty girl, especially if said girl proved incompetent. _ He would put the branding iron of his disapproval on Venus herself should she betray the unmasked stupidity he had ever declined to tolerate. Proof of his imperturbability and indifference had been as frequent and as abundant as occasion arose. He had been sore beset by the pressure of temptation, attacked by sugared remonstrances and cajolories; but blandishments and allurements of beauty, even when it fluttered his brain for a moment, never availed in the end. He was, to put it briefly, beauty-proof. Even the hinted sweetness of the coquette left him cold—cold and civil.
Returning from lunch that afternoon, Eastwood found Miss Dotterby awaiting him in his private office. Miss Dotterby was homely, hard of face, blunt of speech, lacking all grace, but the acme of efficiency.
“Mr. Eastwood,” she said without preamble, “the girl Mr. Pulton sent to me will never make a saleslady. She openly ridiculed the taste of a wealthy and fashionable female patron. I heard her.”
Eastwood had expected to hear something like this and was not in the least surprised—rather pleased, in fact, that his intuition had not led him afield.
“Send Miss—er—” he had to glance at Pulton’s memorandum on his desk for the name—“send Miss Maltby to me, Miss Dotterby.”
A few minutes later, after a polite knock on the door, Maxine Maltby, the incompetent, came in, smiling, shy and irresistible!
Probab’y no one but a poet has recorded his impressions upon being brought face to face for the first time with perfect beauty in woman; but no one ever forgets it. Eastwood had caught fleeting glimpses of many fair