"Hard at it," he said, standing under the flaring gaslight and looking at his brisk employee with great satisfaction.
It was early evening, and the snow was ****** a speckled pattern through the windows in front.
"Just a few points before I wind up," smiled Cowperwood.
"My brother and I have been especially pleased with the way you have handled the work here during the past six months. We wanted to make some acknowledgment, and we thought about five hundred dollars would be right. Beginning January first we'll give you a regular salary of thirty dollars a week."
"I'm certainly much obliged to you," said Frank. "I didn't expect that much. It's a good deal. I've learned considerable here that I'm glad to know."
"Oh, don't mention it. We know you've earned it. You can stay with us as long as you like. We're glad to have you with us."
Cowperwood smiled his hearty, genial smile. He was feeling very comfortable under this evidence of approval. He looked bright and cheery in his well-made clothes of English tweed.
On the way home that evening he speculated as to the nature of this business. He knew he wasn't going to stay there long, even in spite of this gift and promise of salary. They were grateful, of course; but why shouldn't they be? He was efficient, he knew that; under him things moved smoothly. It never occurred to him that he belonged in the realm of clerkdom. Those people were the kind of beings who ought to work for him, and who would. There was nothing savage in his attitude, no rage against fate, no dark fear of failure. These two men he worked for were already nothing more than characters in his eyes--their business significated itself. He could see their weaknesses and their shortcomings as a much older man might have viewed a boy's.
After dinner that evening, before leaving to call on his girl, Marjorie Stafford, he told his father of the gift of five hundred dollars and the promised salary.
"That's splendid," said the older man. "You're doing better than I thought. I suppose you'll stay there."
"No, I won't. I think I'll quit sometime next year."
"Why?"
"Well, it isn't exactly what I want to do. It's all right, but I'd rather try my hand at brokerage, I think. That appeals to me."
"Don't you think you are doing them an injustice not to tell them?"
"Not at all. They need me." All the while surveying himself in a mirror, straightening his tie and adjusting his coat.
"Have you told your mother?"
"No. I'm going to do it now."
He went out into the dining-room, where his mother was, and slipping his arms around her little body, said: "What do you think, Mammy?"
"Well, what?" she asked, looking affectionately into his eyes.
"I got five hundred dollars to-night, and I get thirty a week next year. What do you want for Christmas?"
"You don't say! Isn't that nice! Isn't that fine! They must like you. You're getting to be quite a man, aren't you?"
"What do you want for Christmas?"
"Nothing. I don't want anything. I have my children."
He smiled. "All right. Then nothing it is."
But she knew he would buy her something.
He went out, pausing at the door to grab playfully at his sister's waist, and saying that he'd be back about midnight, hurried to Marjorie's house, because he had promised to take her to a show.
"Anything you want for Christmas this year, Margy?" he asked, after kissing her in the dimly-lighted hall. "I got five hundred to-night."
She was an innocent little thing, only fifteen, no guile, no shrewdness.
"Oh, you needn't get me anything."
"Needn't I?" he asked, squeezing her waist and kissing her mouth again.
It was fine to be getting on this way in the world and having such a good time.
