Judge — November 16, 1912 — page 9: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

| Farewelll-to the Olfice-Boy: Illustrations By CHARLES PHELPS CUSHING by H. OL. HEY are talk- ing it in busi- ness conven- tions that the office boy is doomed to go the way of the quill pen and the sand blot- ter. In these days, when let- ters may be copied by run- ning them through a wringer and the envelope sealing machine has dispensed with the need of moist juvenile tongues, an appren- tice bookkeeper can do a good share of youth’s appointed work in a few extra minutes morning and evening. Telephones and pneumatic mail tubes have made the office boy much less valuable for errand service. The appearance in recent years of the office girl, a comparatively earnest- minded type, who often as not is in training to become a stenographer, completes the devastation begun by the labor-saving devices. She is more to be depended upon than the boy in matters of courtesy to visitors, filing letters and taking down tele- phone messages. ‘‘Red,’’ ‘‘Slim, “Tom,” ‘‘Speck’’ and ‘‘Eddie’’ were more vigorous personalities, but rep- resented an efficiency leakage. Theirs was a merry life—and their philosophy was the essence of happy- go-lucky. They cared nothing for time, except at twelve o’clock and five. At heart they were no re- specters of persons; they rendered only a hand and foot fealty. Their passion for craps and matching pen- nies showed how little they really cared for lucre. You could see they had been driven from the wild, free life of Deadwood Dick’s prairies by the exactions of a cruel economic slavery. Their world, indeed, was so much detached from that of the rest of us in the grind of business life that we caught only snapshot glimpses of it—as when we passed hole-in-the-wall lunch counters and beheld the rear-rank privates of the commercial army dining on strange food, or topping off a meal with drags at home-made _ cigarettes! There was no such thing as attain- ing a thorough understanding of the office boy. The true type was not to be judged by his exterior. An urchin who looked like a charge of the ju- venile court would prove ignorant of the first rules of crap shooting, and Percival Ambrose Gotham, with a cherub’s face and spectacles, would become the driver of a taxicab. We are speaking of the type, of course; not the exceptions. We re- call one office boy who was so efficient that when he moved to another town a large office staff tendered him a dinner and adopted these sincere resolutions of appreciation: Whereas, H. J., the Supreme Office Boy of the World, has proved himself the de luxe edition of office boys, be- ing ever absolutely free from the various failings of all the office boys offices have always known; and Whereas, H. J. reads classic liter- ature instead of dime novels, eats healthy food instead of germ-laden ] | Drucklied free lunch, is always punctual in arriving at the office, and ever on the job until the job is dead; and Whereas, H. J. does not smoke cigarettes or sneak away to sawdust saloons to imbibe the big beers—a practice popular with all office boys of mature age who think intemper- ance the sure route to a live-wire standing; therefore be it Resolved, That the members of this staff, without a dissenting vote, do and with all favor commend H. J., the Supreme Office Boy of the World, to any one from whom he may seek employment or other favor. There is a newspaper in Chicago that has had the same office boy for so many years that he has become an automatic directory of city geogra- phy, local history, telephone numbers and addresses, and is famed through- out the nation. He is now nearing forty and knows his employers as “Bert,”’ “Joe” and ‘J. K."" Blessed be these exceptions! But reverse English for the office boy as a type. We who have been tortured by his war songs and have served as targets for his ammuni- tion of wet paper wads will not much regret that this confined barbarian is soon destined to be liberated by the advance of civilization. comicbooks.com