The Argosy, Vol. 81, No. 4 — page 85: what you’re looking at

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

FOUR SPEEDS FOR FOREST HILL. take—and another. These pliers are some more mistake—and these thread dies— and—” One by one he hurled them out on the floor. They were exact or almost exact duplicates of Orton’s own tools; but they, _ too, bore the chiseled ‘‘O.C.C.” of the house. And Orton saw the trap. His tools had been taken out and replaced from the stock of the factory. Callin had waited then until Orton should put one of them back without noticing its mark. Purposely he had kept away from Orton’s bench all morning to keep clear of any possible ac- cusation of changing the wrench on the desk. Other evidence of his cunning was forthcoming. “Ah, here’s one that ain’t a mistake,” he snarled, tossing back a pair of Orton’s own nippers. ‘And this is his, too. But here’s another little blunder. And here—I suppose you had a die just made to cut you the third-speed cog. Yours is somewhere around. Another mistake.” Callin got up and held aloft this last find from the bottom of the chest. “Well, boys, I guess you saw him put the wrench in. You see the other mistakes. Now: you, will you go get your time, or shall I call the police?”’ Orton’s head was swimming. There was a trace of fear—there was an ocean of sheer rage. “Yll not get my time,” he said hotly. ‘And by the eternal, if you call any police, they’ll have to take you to a hospital before they take me to the court-house.”’ Calmly Callin picked up the heaviest wrench in the chest. “Oh, I don’t care a hang whether you get your time or not. I'll see that you’re not paid for any more time,” he said coolly. ‘This is evidence enough to show even Simpson whether his smart little pet is a blank, blanked thief.” An instant Orton regarded the man in utter fury. It would be worse than mad- ness to attack him with that heavy wrench in one hand and a die neatly ringed over three fingers of the other. He was fired. Callin had fired him! His total impotence overcame him. He burst into the language of the streets, the language of the gutters, the language of pirates and stevedores and thugs, the language of garages the world over. Half of it was intended to arouse in Callin such wrath as would demand even 651 from his craven nature a fair fight without the deadly weapons he might dare use in self-defense but hardly in attack; the other half was mostly the expression of rage at defeat. “Fire me, will you?” he managed to bluster, though without any hope of being able to make good his blustering. ‘Fire me, you—’’ His speech only added to his fury. He was on the verge of hysteria. “You won’t fire me,’ he suddenly shrieked. “I’m going to hold this job. I tell you, I won’t be fired. You can’t do it. J—” “Oh, Dll fire you, you damned thief.” Callin spoke loud enough to overcome Orton’s top-pitched yelling. It was the third time he had used the word ‘“‘thief.”’ Orton forgot the upraised wrench, the die. He leaped forward. “You're fired!” The words had come from behind Orton. The voice that spoke them gave them a tensity of force that was greater than all the curses Orton had spoken or could ever have invented in his life. They seemed to halt him in the midst of a step, to take the strength from his arms. He wheeled about to face the man who had spoken. What the two sharp words had not done to take from him his last ounce of strength and to turn him into a veritable rag of a man, was accomplished by what he saw. It seemed that the other men gathered about had hidden them from the view of Callin as well, at least until he spoke his last threat and accusation. How long they had been there Orton could not begin to guess. But there they were—Mr. Simpson, Mr. Anson P. Atherton—and Arlene. Only Arlene, with cheeks aflame and blood-red ears stopped with her fingers, was hurrying back to the head of the stairs and did not turn to look again as her little heels made the only sound to be heard all the way to the floor below and around out of earshot on to the next flight. Orton had lost his job. He had lost Arlene. He would never dare show her his face after what she had heard him say. At least he could spare himself the humiliation of further lecturing. He started for the elevator door at the opposite end of the building. Whether he jumped down or rode down would be pretty much a matter of the position of the CORMICGLOOOKS (C@)