CHAPTER XII

JIMMY CATCHES THE BOSS’S EYE

When Jimmy arrived at Mr. Pett’s office on Pine Street at ten-thirty the next morning—­his expressed intention of getting up early enough to be there by nine having proved an empty boast—­he was in a high state of preparedness.  He had made ready for what might be a trying interview by substituting a combination of well-chosen dishes at an expensive hotel for the less imaginative boarding-house breakfast with which he had of late been insulting his interior.  His suit was pressed, his shoes gleamed brightly, and his chin was smoothly shaven.  These things, combined with the perfection of the morning and that vague exhilaration which a fine day in down-town New York brings to the man who has not got to work, increased his natural optimism.  Something seemed to tell him that all would be well.  He would have been the last person to deny that his position was a little complicated—­he had to use a pencil and a sheet of paper to show himself just where he stood—­but what of that?  A few complications in life are an excellent tonic for the brain.  It was with a sunny geniality which startled that unaccustomed stripling considerably—­and indeed caused him to swallow his chewing gum—­that he handed in his card to Mr. Pett’s watchfully waiting office-boy.

“This to the boss, my open-faced lad!” he said.  “Get swiftly off the mark.”

The boy departed dumbly.

From where he stood, outside the barrier which separated visitors to the office from the workers within, Jimmy could see a vista of efficient-looking young men with paper protectors round their cuffs working away at mysterious jobs which seemed to involve the use of a great deal of paper.  One in particular was so surrounded by it that he had the appearance of a bather in surf.  Jimmy eyed these toilers with a comfortable and kindly eye.  All this industry made him feel happy.  He liked to think of this sort of thing going on all round him.

The office-boy returned.  “This way, please.”

The respectfulness of the lad’s manner had increased noticeably.  Mr. Pett’s reception of the visitor’s name had impressed him.  It was an odd fact that the financier, a cipher in his own home, could impress all sorts of people at the office.

To Mr. Pett, the announcement that Mr. James Crocker was waiting to see him had come like the announcement of a miracle.  Not a day had passed since their return to America without lamentations from Mrs. Pett on the subject of their failure to secure the young man’s person.  The occasion of Mrs. Pett’s reading of the article in the Sunday Chronicle descriptive of the Lord Percy Whipple affair had been unique in the little man’s domestic history.  For the first time since he had known her the indomitable woman had completely broken down.  Of all sad words of tongue or pen the saddest are these “It might