"Young man," said Mr. Bangs sternly, "I am inclined to think you are deceiving me."

"No," said Quin with spirit, "I haven't deceived you; but I did lie to Miss Eleanor's aunt over the telephone."

"What was your object?"

"Well, I couldn't tell her Mr. Bartlett was stewed, could I?"

Mr. Bangs gave a short, contemptuous laugh. "As I thought," he said.

"That will do."

But Quin had no intention of going until he had spoken a word in his own behalf. The idea had just occurred to him that by obtaining a position with Bartlett & Bangs he could add another link to the chain that was to bind him to Eleanor.

"You don't happen to have a job for me?" he inquired of the back of Mr.

Bangs's bald, dome-like head.

"A job?" repeated Mr. Bangs, glancing over his shoulder at Quin's uniform.

"Yes, sir. I'm out of the service now."

"What can you do?"

Quin looked at him quizzically. "I can receive and obey the orders of the commanding officer," he said.

Mr. Bangs, being humor-proof, evidently considered this impertinent, and repeated his question sharply.

"Oh, I'll do anything," said Quin rashly. "Soldiers can't be choosers these days."

Mr. Bangs cast a critical eye on his strong, well built frame:

"We might use you in the factory," he said indifferently; "we need all the strike-breakers we can get."

Quin's face fell. "I don't know about that," he said slowly. "I haven't made up my mind yet about this union business."

"I thought you were helping the union men in the yard just now."

"I was helping that little Irishman that was getting the life choked out of him."

Mr. Bangs's mouth became a hard, straight line.

"Then I take it you sympathize with the strikers?"

"I don't know whether I do or not," Quin declared stoutly. "I don't know anything about it. But one thing's certain--I'm not going to take another fellow's job, when he's holding out for better conditions, until I know whether those better conditions are due him or not."

Mr. Bangs's fish eyes regarded him with glittering disfavor.

"Perhaps you would prefer an office job?" he suggested with cold insolence. "I need some one to brush out in the morning and to wash windows when necessary."

The erstwhile hero of the Sixth Field Artillery felt his heart thumping madly under his distinguished-conduct medal; but he had declared that he would accept any kind of work, and he was determined not to have his bluff called.

"All right, sir," he said gamely; "I'll start at that if it will lead to something better."

"That rests entirely with you," said Mr. Bangs. "Report for work in the morning."

Quin got out of the office with a hot head, cold hands, and a terrible sinking of the heart. He had forged the first link in his chain--he was an employee of the great Bartlett & Bangs Company; but the gap between himself and Eleanor seemed suddenly to have widened to infinity.

CHAPTER 10

If the window-washing did not become an actuality, it was due to the weather rather than to any clemency on the part of Mr. Bangs. He seemed bent upon testing Quin's mettle, and required tasks of him that only a man used to the discipline of the army would have performed.

Quin, on his part, carried out instructions with a thoroughness and dispatch that upset the entire office force. He had been told to clean things up, and he took an unholy joy in interpreting the order in military terms. Never before had there been such a drastic overhauling of the premises. He did not stop at cleaning up; he insisted upon things being kept clean and orderly. In a short time he had inst.i.tuted reforms that broke the traditions of half a century.

"Who moved my desk out like this?" thundered Mr. Bangs on the second day after Quin's arrival.

"I did, sir," said Quin. "You can get a much better light here, and no draught from the door."

"Well, when I want my desk moved I will inform you," said Mr. Bangs.

But a day's trial of the new arrangement proved so satisfactory that the desk remained in its new position.

Other innovations met with less favor. The clerks in the outer office objected to the windows being kept down from the top, and Mr. Bangs was constantly annoyed when he found that his papers were disturbed by a daily dusting and sorting. Quin met the complaints and rebuffs with easy good humor, and went straight on with his business. The moment his energies were dammed at one point, they burst forth with fresh vigor at another.

The only object about the office that was left undisturbed was Minerva, a large black cat which the stenographer told him belonged to Mr. Randolph Bartlett. Quin was hopelessly committed to cats in general, and to black cats in particular, and the fact that this one met with Mr. Bangs's marked disfavor made him champion her cause at once. One noon hour, in his first week, he was sitting alone in the inner office, scratching Minerva's head in the very spot behind the ear where a cat most likes to be scratched, when a lively voice from the doorway demanded:

"Well, young man, what do you mean by making love to my cat in my absence?"

"She flirted with me first," said Quin. Then he took a second look at the stranger and got up smiling. "You are Mr. Bartlett, I believe?"

"Yes. Are you waiting for Mr. Bangs?"

"No, sir," said Quin; "he's waiting for me. I'm to let him know as soon as you come in. I am the new office-boy."

He grinned down on the shorter man, who in his turn laughed outright.

"Office-boy? What nonsense! Where have I seen you before? What is your name?"

"Quinby Graham, sir."

"Drop the sir, for heaven's sake. I'm no officer. Where in the d.i.c.kens have I met you? Oh! wait a second, I've got it! Sunday night. We were out somewhere together----"

"Hold on there," said Quin. "_You_ were out together, but I was out by myself. We met at your door."

"So you were the chap that played the good Samaritan? Well, it was d.a.m.ned clever of you, old man. I'm glad of a chance to thank you. I hadn't touched a drop for six weeks before that, but you see----"

Mr. Bangs's metallic voice was heard in the outer office, and the two younger men started.