He pranced up to the Souvenir Company’s brick building, on Twenty-eighth Street near Sixth Avenue.  In the office he chuckled at his ink-well and the untorn blotters on his orderly desk.  Though he sat under the weary unnatural brilliance of a mercury-vapor light, he dashed into his work, and was too keen about this business of living merrily to be much flustered by the bustle of the lady buyer’s superior “Good morning.”  Even up to ten-thirty he was still slamming down papers on his desk.  Just let any one try to stop his course, his readiness for snapping fingers at The Job; just let them try it, that was all he wanted!

Then he was shot out of his chair and four feet along the corridor, in reflex response to the surly “Bur-r-r-r-r” of the buzzer.  Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle, the manager, desired to see him.  He scampered along the corridor and slid decorously through the manager’s doorway into the long sun-bright room, ornate with rugs and souvenirs.  Seven Novelties glittered on the desk alone, including a large rococo Shakespeare-style glass ink-well containing cloves and a small iron Pittsburg-style one containing ink.  Mr. Wrenn blinked like a noon-roused owlet in the brilliance.  The manager dropped his fist on the desk, glared, smoothed his flowered prairie of waistcoat, and growled, his red jowls quivering: 

“Look here, Wrenn, what’s the matter with you?  The Bronx Emporium order for May Day novelties was filled twice, they write me.”

“They ordered twice, sir.  By ’phone,” smiled Mr. Wrenn, in an agony of politeness.

“They ordered hell, sir!  Twice—­the same order?”

“Yes, sir; their buyer was prob—­”

“They say they’ve looked it up.  Anyway, they won’t pay twice.  I know, em.  We’ll have to crawl down graceful, and all because you—­I want to know why you ain’t more careful!”

The announcement that Mr. Wrenn twice wriggled his head, and once tossed it, would not half denote his wrath.  At last!  It was here—­the time for revolt, when he was going to be defiant.  He had been careful; old Goglefogle was only barking; but why should he be barked at?  With his voice palpitating and his heart thudding so that he felt sick he declared: 

“I’m sure, sir, about that order.  I looked it up.  Their buyer was drunk!”

It was done.  And now would he be discharged?  The manager was speaking: 

“Probably.  You looked it up, eh?  Um!  Send me in the two order-records.  Well.  But, anyway, I want you to be more careful after this, Wrenn.  You’re pretty sloppy.  Now get out.  Expect me to make firms pay twice for the same order, cause of your carelessness?”

Mr. Wrenn found himself outside in the dark corridor. 
The manager hadn’t seemed much impressed by his revolt.

The manager wasn’t.  He called a stenographer and dictated: 

“Bronx Emporium: