The Argosy, Vol. 81, No. 4 — page 84: what you’re looking at

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

650 and epithets and abuse. This had lost none of its distastefulness. Rather it seemed worse than ever. It had suddenly gained the loathsomeness anything had for Orton from which he could not seem to get away. Yet this was the thing Arlene wanted. She was not asking him to get rich, to match her wealth with money of his own, before she could accept his friendship again. She was practically offering to wait for his success. All she asked was that he stick to one job long enough to show that he had the stamina which was part of the capacity for success. All she asks, he put it to himself in a moment of resentment, is the privilege of dictating how I succeed. There was an instant answer. Certainly Arlene had, by her faithfulness beyond all his deserts, won some right to dictate. There was another answer. Arlene was right. Her way was right. He had been proving for six unsuccessful years that he was wrong. He could look back over the whole long succession of changes without finding one by which he had not lost. And there was not one single instance where the job he had given up had not. looked to him utterly bad; the job he had taken seemed utterly good. He had thought it was the jobs; now he knew it was he who was to blame for the whole wretched mess he had made of his affairs. But the present instance? Was there real hope of advancement? Was the pros- pect of superintending a factory as good as that of managing even a small commence- ment of a business of his own? “Hardy,” he answered himself with sud- den conviction, ‘‘you haven’t sense enough to judge about that. You’re just weak- minded enough so that any new job looks better than any old one in the world. The mere fact that a change looks good to you is considerable evidence that you’d better not make it. You darned big fool, suppose you satisfy that little love of novelty by giving it the entirely untried sensation of sticking something out.” And Orton went back to the Orton Car Company’s factory in the morning with all the enthusiasm he usually felt-for a new job. Temperamental—sentimental—maybe he could have kept it up, maybe not. The . fates had things in store for him. Owing to a slight delay on the ride down THE ARGOSY. Market street he was a minute late in reaching the shop. He hurried to the closet as he drew off his coat. He carried jhe wrench from its pocket up in ‘the ele- vator, but dropped it on the bench where he had been working last night. His own chest of tools was at the farther end of the room. His fresh enthusiasm wanted to get down to work; he could take the wrench over when he happened to be going that way. ‘ He was almost sorry that Callin did not take occasion to abuse him for his tardiness. He wanted to prove to himself the strength of his fresh resolves not to let Callin an- noy him. _ Callin had eyed him sharply as he entered, had made as if to follow him to his bench; but had thought better of it ap- parently. He did not come near for the three hours Orton remained busy at his work. At the end of that time Orton wanted a pair of calipers. He started for his tool- chest, which contained one. .His eyes fell upon the wrench. He picked it up, carried it over, placed it in his box, began to rum- mage a compartment for the calipers. ‘“What’s that you’re putting in your chest?” Orton had seen Callin on the other side of the room as he started. Even the rubber heels the foreman always wore did not ac- count for his presence at Orton’s back un- less the man had run. The bellowed query had its intended effect of startling Orton. “My wrench,” Hardy answered, after drawing a breath.” And he became aware that the other men on the floor were ap- proaching. “Your wrench, eh?” snarled Callin, stooping over Orton’s chest. ‘Your wrench, ehe” he repeated, drawing out the tool Orton had just placed there. ‘‘Now, you your time and get out of here quick, or lei a _ He was holding the wrench aloft, the iron butt of its handle displayed to the gaze of the men. On it was sharply cut the in- itials that marked every tool belonging to the house. It was a common enough variety of wrench. “I must have made a mistake,” Orton said quietly. ‘‘There’s a wrench of mine about exactly like that one. Ill find it and show it to you if—” ‘““A mistake, eh? And here’s another mis- COPMICLOOKS thief, you go down and get (©)