concerned, and in the absence of his father, who was in
New York at the time (a fact which Clyde did not know and
of which Gilbert did not trouble to inform him) he had
conveyed to his mother and sisters that he had met Clyde,
and if he were not the dullest, certainly he was not the most
interesting person in the world, either. Encountering Myra,
as he first entered at five-thirty, the same day that Clyde
had appeared, he troubled to observe: “Well, that Chicago
cousin of ours blew in to-day.”
“Yes!” commented Myra. “What’s he like?” The fact that her
father had described Clyde as gentlemanly and intelligent
had interested her, although knowing Lycurgus and the
nature of the mill life here and its opportunities for those
who worked in factories such as her father owned, she had
wondered why Clyde had bothered to come.
“Well, I can’t see that he’s so much,” replied Gilbert. “He’s
fairly intelligent and not bad-looking, but he admits that he’s
never had any business training of any kind. He’s like all
those young fellows who work for hotels. He thinks clothes
are the whole thing, I guess. He had on a light brown suit
and a brown tie and hat to match and brown shoes. His tie
was too bright and he had on one of those bright pink
striped shirts like they used to wear three or four years ago.
Besides his clothes aren’t cut right. I didn’t want to say
anything because he’s just come on, and we don’t know
whether he’ll hold out or not. But if he does, and he’s going
to pose around as a relative of ours, he’d better tone down,
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or I’d advise the governor to have a few words with him.
Outside of that I guess he’ll do well enough in one of the
departments after a while, as foreman or something. He
might even be made into a salesman later on, I suppose.
But what he sees in all that to make it worth while to come
here is more than I can guess. As a matter of fact, I don’t
think the governor made it clear to him just how few the
chances are here for any one who isn’t really a wizard or
something.”
He stood with his back to the large open fireplace.
“Oh, well, you know what Mother was saying the other day
about his father. She thinks Daddy feels that he’s never had
a chance in some way. He’ll probably do something for him
whether he wants to keep him in the mill or not. She told
me that she thought that Dad felt that his father hadn’t been
treated just right by their father.”
Myra paused, and Gilbert, who had had this same hint from
his mother before now, chose to ignore the implication of it.
“Oh, well, it’s not my funeral,” he went on. “If the governor
wants to keep him on here whether he’s fitted for anything
special or not, that’s his look-out. Only he’s the one that’s
always talking about efficiency in every department and
cutting and keeping out dead timber.”
Meeting his mother and Bella later, he volunteered the
same news and much the same ideas. Mrs. Griffiths
sighed; for after all, in a place like Lycurgus and established
as they were, any one related to them and having their
name ought to be most circumspect and have careful
manners and taste and judgment. It was not wise for her
husband to bring on any one who was not all of that and
more.
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On the other hand, Bella was by no means satisfied with
the accuracy of her brother’s picture of Clyde. She did not
know Clyde, but she did know Gilbert, and as she knew he
could decide very swiftly that this or that person was lacking
in almost every way, when, as a matter of fact, they might
not be at all as she saw it.
“Oh, well,” she finally observed, after hearing Gilbert
comment on more of Clyde’s peculiarities at dinner, “if
Daddy wants him; I presume he’ll keep him, or do
something with him eventually.” At which Gilbert winced
internally for this was a direct slap at his assumed authority
in the mill under his father, which authority he was eager to
make more and more effective in every direction, as his
younger sister well knew.
In the meanwhile on the following morning, Clyde, returning
to the mill, found that the name, or appearance, or both
perhaps—his resemblance to Mr. Gilbert Griffiths—was of
some peculiar advantage to him which he could not quite
sufficiently estimate at present. For on reaching number
one entrance, the doorman on guard there looked as
though startled.
“Oh, you’re Mr. Clyde Griffiths?” he queried. “You’re goin’ to
work under Mr. Kemerer? Yes, I know. Well, that man there
will have your key,” and he pointed to a stodgy, stuffy old
man whom later Clyde came to know as “Old Jeff,” the time-
clock guard, who, at a stand farther along this same hall,
furnished and reclaimed all keys between seven-thirty and
seven-forty.
When Clyde approached him and said: “My name’s Clyde
Griffiths and I’m to work downstairs with Mr. Kemerer,” he
too started and then said: “Sure, that’s right. Yes, sir. Here
you are, Mr. Griffiths. Mr. Kemerer spoke to me about you
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yesterday. Number seventy-one is to be yours. I’m giving
you Mr. Duveny’s old key.” When Clyde had gone down the
stairs into the shrinking department, he turned to the door-
man who had drawn near and exclaimed: “Don’t it beat all
how much that fellow looks like Mr. Gilbert Griffiths? Why,
he’s almost his spittin’ image. What is he, do you suppose,
a brother or a cousin, or what?”
“Don’t ask me,” replied the doorman. “I never saw him
before. But he’s certainly related to the family all right.
When I seen him first, I thought it was Mr. Gilbert. I was just
about to tip my hat to him when I saw it wasn’t.”
And in the shrinking room when he entered, as on the day
before, he found Kemerer as respectful and evasive as
ever. For, like Whiggam before him, Kemerer had not as
yet been able to decide what Clyde’s true position with this
company was likely to be. For, as Whiggam had informed
Kemerer the day before, Mr. Gilbert had said no least thing
which tended to make Mr. Whiggam believe that things
were to be made especially easy for him, nor yet hard,
either. On the contrary, Mr. Gilbert had said: “He’s to be
treated like all the other employees as to time and work. No
different.” Yet in introducing Clyde he had said: “This is my
cousin, and he’s going to try to learn this business,” which
would indicate that as time went on Clyde was to be
transferred from department to department until he had
surveyed the entire manufacturing end of the business.
Whiggam, for this reason, after Clyde had gone, whispered
to Kemerer as well as to several others, that Clyde might
readily prove to be some one who was a protégé of the chief
—and therefore they determined to “watch their step,” at
least until they knew what his standing here was to be. And
Clyde, noticing this, was quite set up by it, for he could not
help but feel that this in itself, and apart from whatever his
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cousin Gilbert might either think or wish to do, might easily
presage some favor on the part of his uncle that might lead
to some good for him. So when Kemerer proceeded to
explain to him that he was not to think that the work was so
very hard or that there was so very much to do for the
present, Clyde took it with a slight air of condescension.
And in consequence Kemerer was all the more respectful.
“Just hang up your hat and coat over there in one of those
lockers,” he proceeded mildly and ingratiatingly even. “Then
you can take one of those crate trucks back there and go
up to the next floor and bring down some webs. They’ll
show you where to get them.”
The days that followed were diverting and yet troublesome
enough to Clyde, who to begin with was puzzled and
disturbed at times by the peculiar social and workaday
worlds and position in which he found himself. For one
thing, those by whom now he found himself immediately
surrounded at the factory were not such individuals as he
would ordinarily select for companions—far below bell-boys
or drivers or clerks anywhere. They were, one and all, as he
could now clearly see, meaty or stodgy mentally and
physically. They wore such clothes as only the most
common laborers would wear—such clothes as are usually
worn by those who count their personal appearance among