THE WRONG TYPE
How can an artist—a soul striving for expansion— survive in the workaday world, where “business is business” is the rule of the game? If you know “the grind” you will like this story of a desperate rebellion.
HOWARD VINCENT O’BRIEN
"LIFE," observed Henry Piper unoriginally but with extreme fervor, "is just one darn thing after another."
He to stare glumly at the pile of envelopes beside his plate. "Getting in deeper and deeper all the time. I don't know what's going to be the end of it. I don't—that's a fact."
HL~ t1e 4 s1~~~thing hand on arm. lL~. e noch~r cup of cortct' Henry. a1 t. 1 know tt wdt \~ t~ e more d~ct~rs b~U_~ t~tn tL~U~t! l~ut he o~d~v's much b~tt~r~ A~d I
u El :ht~ti d'.'1ly. \~~u need v I b~~dy to he! p .&~1 /1 U Y. h t he U need ri~tie, ch~t'~ .dl U~' rt~flt V. sh! lie hi~ ch~n ti~~ttul[[y. His wife was silent.
( I'd er~t~k a safe-anything. Doggone lie h~s thin shoulders. `Guess I was a fool, all rtght. hen I `nt tn for myself. But I thought
`` miss ur train if you dont hurry, dear." a ;~vtt1etit the house comes due next week,'' sa~d henry irrelevantly. "Well-being in hus:ness for yourself isn't what t'~ cracked up to be. When I stanted the Piper Press I thou.~~ I'd make some money and met hing worth while, too. But it's worse than v's. I.~ :e~-heads. En velope stutTer's. Stuff! I haven't r~e a job yet I'd put my :r':-'r't n"
H~s voice w~ sad. He w~ very proud of that imprinta iict~e picture of the pipes of Pan, which M~Ily had drawn for him.
train, Henry*,” repeated his wife. “Maybe something’ll turn up to-day. You never can tell.”
“Well, maybe so.” Henry sighed and rose from the table. “Darkest before dawn, they ^ say. That Overaker catalog job might fall. They promised to let us figure. ^ ell. good*by. dear. Keep a~3miling!”
This, Mrs. Piper contrived to do, until the door had slammed behind her husband. Then the smile abruptly vanished. She reached for the little pile of bills, and, methodically, began to open them.
iD at his place of ness, Henry found the elevator out of commission. There was no novelty in this, since one of the reasons for the low rental paid by the Piper Press was the acknowledged weaknesses of the elevator. As Henry puffed his way up the four flights of stairs, through the caking dirt of half a century, he realized that he should be grateful for the inadequacies of the elevator. It was a big “talking-point,” according to Bean, the salesman he had hired, when his own deficiencies had become too apparent.
Bean was a man at whom Henry never ceased to marvel. All he knew about printing you could “put in your eye,” as he himself cheerfully admitted. But he was a good salesman. He wore a doublebreasted blue suit, carried a silver cigarette case, and was a go-getter. Henry was aware that he should not be puzzled at Bean's success. Bean made no secret of it. Twenty times a day he told the story.
“The way to succeed,” he declared, “is to cut your costs. Hit ’em where they live,” he said. “In the pocket -
book. That’s what people fall for. They are all alike.” There were an enormous number of things he himself did not understand about people, Henry reflected, as he put his hand on the long unpainted door of the Piper Press. And understanding people—“psychology,” Bean called it—was the secret of success.
Inside, he buried these thoughts, and put on a “front.” You bad to have a “front”—everyone agreed to that
. . . though just what a “front” was, Henry was not sure.
“Any calls?” he inquired briskly of his stenographer.
“Not yet, Mr. Piper,” was her tactful answer. “But Mr. Bean’s waiting for you. He’s in your office.”
Henry’s heart sank. Bean had been hinting, of late, that his drawing account was not quite what it should be. And he couldn’t get along without Bean. He had no “front” at all as he went into the partitioned corner which was called his
“You wanted to see me?” he faltered. Bean looked up from his newspaper. “What’s the matter, Henry? You look pale? Anything wrong at home?”
“Oh, no—nothing,” answered Henry hastily. “Nothing ‘special’.”
Good glad to hear it.” Bean rubbed his hands. Well, maybe this 11 cheer you up. Good news. Overaker’s given us a chance to figure!”
“Against Hanly & Ebbetts?”
Bean smiled wisely. “Business is business, Henry. Competition is the life of trade. You know the H. & E. plant. Twice as much space as they can use. Gravel walks. Flower-boxes—all the folderols in the world. Capital tied up in nonsense—frozen. And look at ours.” He made an expansive gesture. “How d’you suppose they can compete with us?”
Henry was still dubious. “But they’ve always done Overaker’s work.”
“Times are harder,” said Bean oracularly. “Competition’s keener. And Overaker's got a new purchasing agent— a real one, they tell me. Dinsmore was a nice old duck—but as a business man. . . .” He left the comparison unfinished. “Price cut no figure with Dinsmore. The new man’s different. Sharpens his pencil and gets down to brass tacks.” “Nice man—Mr. Dinsmore,” said Henry pensively. “Appreciated good work. He was pretty old, though. Too bad.” “Too bad, nothing,” growled Bean. “It’s our chance. There’s a raft of business we can get out of Overaker. This catalog alone—”
HENRY did not hear him.
Before his eyes flashed a picture of his wife, as he had left her at the breakfast table. He was not a keen observer, but her smile had not deceived him. Molly had grit—by jiminy, she had! And maybe she wouldn’t smile—a real smile—when he came home and told her he’d copped off the Overaker catalog-—swfiped it right out from under Hanly & Ebbetts’ nose! All of a sudden he was enormously glad of the elevator that didn’t run, and the dingy stairs, and Bean’s insistence upon keeping costs down. There wasn’t a print shop in town could beat their prices. Not one!
He became very brisk. “I’ll go right over.”
Bean chuckled. “Say— when they see our figure, they’ll want to have Hanly & Ebbetts pinched for burglary. Highbinders! An’ w*e’ll make money on it, too, Henry. A pot of money!”
Henry w*as fingering the dummy Bean had pushed toward him. “I don’t like this stock very much. It isn’t just what I had in mind.” Bean nodded. *“I changed it. I got a line on a couple of cars we can pick up for half a cent less. Practically the
same thing. You couldn’t tell ’em from the others.” Henry continued to finger the dummy. “Do you think it will stand up?” he asked diffidently. “It seems —well, just a little bit . . .”
Bean stirred with impatience. “None of your fancy notions, now, Henry. This isn’t going to hang on some-, body’s wall, you know. It’s just a catalog. Darn it all, Henry—sometimes I wonder if you’ll ever get any business sense! You got to be practical, Henry.” “Yes, of course,” assented Henry feebly. “But it does seem as if—”
“As if what?”
“Well—” Henry floundered. It was not that he did not know what he wanted to say. He knew exactly. But he knew equally well that what he wanted to say was what he ought not even to think. Sooner or later, though, he always said what he thought.
“What I mean is, well—it’s sort of cheap. The dummy, I mean. Oh, it isn’t that it’s not a good dummy. It’s a peach, really. Only—well, everything Overaker does is always so—so, well, bang-up, you might say, it doesn’t —er—somehow . . .”
“Look here, Henry.” Bean’s broad, soft hand came down on the desk. “You’re one of the best layout men I ever saw. And you know more about type than the man that invented it. I’d be the last to say you didn’t. But as a business man . . .” The annoyance in his eyes yielded to a tolerant compassion. “The trouble with you, Henry, is—you’re an artist.”
Henry shuddered. On Bean’s lips the word became an epithet. He tried to protest, but Bean silenced him with a gesture.
“That’s what you are, Henry,” he said firmly, “you’re an artist. And I’m not saying it ain’t all right to be an artist—in the right place. ’Specially if you don’t care whether your family eats or not.”
Noticing how Henry winced at this thrust, he continued on the same theme.
“I’m not saying, either, that I’m not an artist at heart, myself. Good gravy, don’t you s’pose I’d like to turn out art printing, too? But I got responsibilities, Henry—same as you. Regardless of what we like, we got to turn out stuff we can sell. We got to have turnover. Business is getting harder every day. In the long run it goes to the fellow who can turn out his stuff for the least money. Understand?”
“Yes,” said Henry with docility.
“There’s another thing. A man in my position has got to see every side of a question. Take a job like this, here. You think it’s something in itself. D’you know the way I see it?”
“No,” said Henry politely.
Bean showed no surprise. He contrived to make it clear that he would have been surprised only if Henry had known the way he saw it. “It’s not a thing in itself,” he declared heavily. “It’s a means to an end. Get that, Henry. The cheaper you can make a means, the bigger the end will be.”
Henry did not know what Bean meant by this epigram. But that was only his own obtuseness, he told himself. He never did understand people who talked in epigrams.
“I see,” he said doubtfully. “Only—it does seem as if, considering the way they do business, their catalog ...” “Forget it, Henry,” ordered Bean succinctly, as he slid the dummy into its envelope. “You skip over now an’ knock their eye out with this estimate.”
Henry Piper never thought of himself as having a strong will. But he was conscious of a curious streak of obstinacy. “I’ll go right away. But just the same—I don’t think that’s the kind of a job Overaker ought to have.”
He bit his lip, reddening, as the words left him. Such a thought was nothing short of treason. Quite literally, he trembled at his salesman’s response. The latter, however, merely laughed. “You’re a card, Henry,” he said comfortably. “I’ll bet you could get ’em up something they’d want to put in a museum. But you aren’t in business for fun, are you, Henry?”
Henry stiffened at the question. Again, his thoughts flew homeward. What a wretched fellow he was. He was loyal only to his own stubborn notions of what was right and what was wrong—just as selfish as he could be. If Molly knew how selfish he was, she wouldn’t put her hand on his sleeve like that. She wouldn’t want him in the same house with her. It was a wonder Bean didn’t kick him out forthwith—down those dirty, ugly stairs . . . not half as dirty and ugly as he, Henry Piper, was himself.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he said aloud. “Of course, it’s just as you say. A catalog’s just a means to an end. It ought to be ugly and cheap—I mean, it ought to be cheap. Yes, I’ll go right over. I think, perhaps, it ought to be you. But I’ll do my best. It
isn’t what they ought to have, but we got to live. You’re right about that. Business is business. Oh, Lord . . .”
His mind in a hopeless confusion, Henry stumbled out of his office. Bean’s voice followed him: “Bring home the bacon, Henry.”
It was Bean’s voice, unquestionably, but in it Henry fancied that he could hear his wife’s, also. His whole duty was plain. But as he crept dowrn the long, dark flights to the street, his shoulders were bent, like a man crushed under a heavy weight. He tried, several times, to straighten them. Was he not in business for himself, on his way to cop off a nice piece of business? What more could a man want? But his shoulders remained bowed.
AS HE trudged toward the office of Overaker & Company, w'hich was in one of the newer buildings over on the Lake, his feet moved to the refrain of “business, business, business is business.” He passed a store window, full of garish lithographs, with a sign: “Your Choice—10c. Make Your Home Beautiful.”
His lip curled. Near it was another window, displaying men’s clothing. A man and a woman stood in front of it. They were studying the suits. Presently, Henry knew, they would go inside, and buy—buy because of the price tag, buy what they thought was “cheap.” because they w7ere poor. And because what they bought was “cheap,” they would be trebly poor in the end. It was all very confusing, Henry thought. But competition in clothing was keen. Business w7as business. If people wanted t.o throw good money after bad, whose affair was it but theirs?
The elevator in the Overaker office building ranand swiftly, and Henry was just a little out of breath when he presented his card to the young person behind the mahogany rail vthich set off Overaker & Company from the rest of the world. “Mr. Spayson is out just now,” she said. “Back in an hour.” She resumed her perusal of a magazine.
An hour—with his own office on the other side of town. Henry w7ent out into the hall, and examined the little parcel of cards he carried in his wallet. They were precious, those cards—his “prospects.” A real salesman, he knew, would not loiter. But he was not a salesman. That was why he had had to hire Bean. Furtively, he put the cards back in his pocket, and descended to the street.
At the entrance to the building there was a bookstore, and he tarried for a moment, nose against the glass. In that pile of bills at the breakfast table there had been bills from the butcher and the grocer and the doctor and the dry-goods merchant; there had been none from a bookstore. There never had been. Probably there never would be. He wondered what it must be like to get bills from a bookstore. He fancied that it would not be unpleasant to pay such a bill. Meat was eaten, clothes w7ore out, wffiat the doctor did was well forgotten. But a book—it neither vanished nor wore out, nor asked forgetfulness. Miraculously, though its frame might yield before time, its content did not. It was the most precious of possessions— to mere things as the soul was to the flesh.
WITH a sigh he tore himself away from the treasures of the bookstore window. But there was another bookstore, not far away, upstairs, where those who could not buy books might look at them, and feel them, and if they chose, read them. It was a bookstore w7hich was not operated for profit. The only reason it was not operated for profit was the fact that its proprietor, old William Selby, did not know7 how7. In his youth, he had tried to sell books. Now he was content to let them be bought.
He greeted Henry with a little chirrup of glee, promptly deserting a more valid customer. “Look what I’ve got, Henry,” he cried, diving under a counter! “Look!” Reappearing w7ith a small, thin volume in his hand, he deftly blew7 the dust from it. “Did your poor eyes ever rest on anything more marvellous?”
“Great guns!” Henry’s mouth was wide. “I didn’t know there was one in this country7!”
Old Selby’s forehead wrinkled over his spectacles. “Rare—yes. But beautiful, too. Going on five hundred years, Henry7—and you printers haven t improved a step.”
“Improved?” echoed Henry, his voice a little bitter. “No—not much.” His hand shook slightly as he took the volume Selby7 held out to him. “Gosh—what paper!” Tenderly, he fingered the fly leaf. “And the ink, Selby. We’ve forgotten how to mix ink like that. Black—after all those years. Gosh!”
“Look at that colophon, Henry7,” said the old bookseller, peering over his shoulder. “Lovely as the Parthenon, eh?”
Henry nodded dreamily. “Must ’a been done on a hard platen. Not a trace of offset. Gee—wrhat presswork!”
“I wouldn’t trade it for a dozen of the Musaeus. And as for the Lascaris ...” .
Henry scratched his head. “Impressum \ enetiis in Aedibus Aldi Romani mense Februario Anno H95. Wliat’s that mean, Selby?”
“What’s all the excitement?” The customer, a current novel in his hand, had drawn near.
“Only sixty pages,” said Selby. “Signatures A to D. But perfection in every fibre. What a man he was. Nowadays ...”
“Who you talking about, anyway?” persisted the customer.
“A man named Aldus,” answrered Henry7 shortly. The customer looked blank. Then, to Selby, he held out the novel in his hand. “Wrap this up, wTill you.
With a little start, the old bookseller came back from fifteenth century Venice. “Why7, yes—certainly. He
took the novel and w7rapped it, and handed it back to the customer. His eyes were still on the Aldus.^ I
s’pose I’ll have to sell it,” he said mournfully7. I m äfräid so
Henry Piper had also come back from \ enice. Gosh! he exclaimed, glancing at his wrntch. “I got an appointment.” Guiltily, he remembered Molly and the buis and the Overaker job. Mooning over musty7 old books— as Bean would say, that didn’t get yrou anywhere. This wasn’t 1495. A fellow had to be practical—on his toes.
When he reached the Overaker offices and presented his card, the purchasing agent w7as still “out.” But the girl with the magazine was sympathetic. “What d you
Continued on page 60
The Wrong Type
Continued, from page 19
want to see him about?” she asked.
“Printing,” answered Henry. “Your catalog.”
She shrugged her shoulders, and he turned to go. But there came a voice from an inner office, the door of which was ajar. “Hey, Miss Clausen—send the gentleman in here.”
“Hey—Piper,” the girl relayed the order. “Mr. Overaker’ll take care o’ you. Right in there.”
MOISTENING his lips, Henry went into the office she designated. A man, considerably older than himself, sat at the desk. At his elbow, comfortably smoking a cigar, was another man. “I heard you say ‘catalog’ ” said the man at the desk. “Are you figuring on our catalog?”
“Why, yes—I’ve got an estimate right with me,” said Henry. “Mr. Spayson asked for it. That is, he—”
Overaker held out his hand. “Oh, he did? Well, let’s see it.”
Henry had some difficulty with the catch of his brief-case, but the dummy and the sheet of figures finally came out.
“Let’s see the dummy, George,” said the man who was smoking. Obediently, Henry handed it to him.
Overaker, his eyes on the estimate, whistled softly. “What sort of a job would you give us—at this price?” he asked.
“Oh—absolutely first-class, in every particular,” answered Henry quickly. In his own ears the words sounded rather mechanical. He hoped that was his imagination. It would be first classaccording to Bean’s standards—and that meant most peoples’.
Mr. Overaker pursed his lips and took the dummy from the man at his side. “You’ve—er—simplified things a good deal, haven’t you.”
“A catalog,” said Henry crisply, as if he were repeating something he had learned by heart, “is a means to an end. The simpler the better. Efficiency—” Overaker nodded, seeming to agree. “Think there’s any chance of our beating this price?”
Henry’s heart sank. This was the “sharpening the pencil” of which Bean had spoken. They were close buyers. Cheapness—that was what got people. But he shook his head vigorously. “No, sir. We’ve got the most efficient shop in the city. Low rent. We pass our savings on to the customer.”
“It’s a clever layout,” said Overaker, slowly thumbing the pages of the dummy. “Make it yourself?”
Henry hung his head. He knew he ought to be proud. But he was not. He wondered why.
“Oh—you’re a shop man, eh?” said the man with the cigar.
Henry nodded again. “I was^ composing-room foreman at Rafferty's—till I went in for myself.”
He felt himself flushing. He saw no contempt in the eyes of the two men, watching him, but he felt that there ought to be. What was the matter with him? They were admiring his handiwork —that wretched piece of shoddy—and he ought to be glowing with pride. It was no mean thing to have a man like Overaker admire one’s handiwork.
Overaker’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “I don’t mind telling you your figure’s ’way under what we’ve been paying.”
“ ’Way under,” echoed the other man, with a little smile.
Henry forgot his humiliation, and his heart leaped. There would be a satisfaction in paying up those bills, and taking care of Molly. It would be, well, a different sort of satisfaction, to be sure, but ...
“You think this job would do the work for us?” continued Overaker.
With a distinct effort, Henry pulled himself erect in his chair. “A catalog.” he repeated primly, “is a means to an end. You could make it cost much more, but—but—I mean, talking turkey, the thing to do is to save money. The—' He choked, his mind blank of all the phrases he had heard Bean use. Desperately, he struggled to—to—close, that was the word. He fumbled nervously for his fountain-pen. Get his name on the dotted line . . . bring home the bacon. Bean seemed to be whispering over his
shoulder. Molly was whispering. Just a phrase or two, now—-the clinchers. They would turn the trick. But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember any. A few strays wandered across his memory. But they didn’t quite fit. Brass tacks . . .
He swallowed hard. “Getting down to brass tacks,” he said, and stopped. His forehead was moist with perspiration. “Getting—
Mr. Overaker laughed, but it was not an unkindly laugh. There was a note of sympathy in it—and that was Henry Piper’s undoing. Had he been derisive, Henry might have gone on with it, found the right phrase—-the clincher—got his name on the dotted line. But Overaker’s eyes were not hard and covetous. There was something in them—a kind of understanding. A phrase flashed into Henry’s mind—Impressum Venetiis in Aedibus Aldi. Suddenly, it seemed as if the only eyes upon him were those which had looked for something—never entirely to be found—in Venice, nearly five hundred years before. They were eyes which saw into the corners of a man’s soul. With a bound, Henry was at Overaker’s desk, the dummy of the catalog in his hand.
“Yes, I did this myself,” he cried, his thin little voice rising almost to a shout. “I did it all right. And it’s just as rotten as it can be!”
Fiercely, he tore it in two, and threw the parts as far from him as he could, as if they were contamination. “It’s cheap —cheap, I tell you. And you—you aren’t cheap!”
“It would seem,” said Overaker softly “as if you didn’t want this job.”
Henry suddenly collapsed, as the enormity of what he had done came over him. “Oh, my God,” he moaned, “I never wanted anything more in my life!”
“You’re an odd sort of a salesman,” said Overaker gently.
Henry covered his face with his hands. “I’m not a salesman at all.” Then he clutched at the last lingering shred of his self-respect. His head straightened. “And I’m glad I’m not! Not if being a salesman means you’ve got to swindle people.”
“Swindle?” echoed Overaker in mild surprise.
“Yes,” cried Henry, hotly. “Swindle. If I let you put your money into that—” He indicated the torn dummy, lying on the floor. “I’d be swindling you. You’d get it cheap—nobody could give it to you cheaper. But—”
OVERAKER seemed about to speak, but Henry silenced him with a gesture oddly imperious. “Look here. “What’s that picture on your wall? Means to an end, eh?” He laughed derisively. “This rug. Where does that get you?” A phrase popped into his mind. “I’ll tell you what it is—it’s frozen capital. I’m not much of a business man—but I don’t think you are, either. I’ve gone and thrown away the best chance I ever had, just because—well, I don’t know why I did it, and I don’t know what’s going to become of me. But you throw away your money, too, just because—-because you aren’t cheap —because—oh, darn it all, I can’t even say what I mean, only . . .”
“It is a beautiful thing,” murmured Overaker, his eyes on the rug underfoot. “Are you interested in rugs?”
But Henry was not listening. He had gathered up his papers and was closing his brief-case. All his emotion had left him.
“Best thing you can do is let Hanly & Ebbetts print your catalog,” he said colorlessly. “They—they’re your sort.” Wretchedly, as he went back to his office, he tried to figure out what he would say to Bean. But the latter’s first question: “Well, did you fetch the
bacon?” found him still unprepared.
When he shook his head, Bean looked incredulous. “Price too high?”
Henry shook his head again. “It was ’way under what they’ve been paying.” “Well, then—?”
Henry sank into a chair. How could he make Bean understand? How could he make anybody understand? He couldn’t, possibly. There were some
things one couldn’t ever put into words. Old Selby might perhaps understand. And Molly—bless her—after she got over the first shock of it. But Bean . . . he opened his eyes and smiled.
“What are you laughing at?” demanded Bean.
Henry was on the point of trying to tell him, when the telephone rang. Bean answered it. “For you,” he exclaimed. “It’s Overaker. Maybe—”
“For me—Overaker?” Dumbfounded, Henry took the instrument. “Hello. Yes. Who? Well, for goodness’ sake! He did? Why, yes, I’ll consider it— sure. Yes, I know that. No, never in the world. Still—1 think I’d better talk to my wife, first. Is she? Well, you just bet she is. The very finest!”
“What’s the dope?” cried Bean excitedly, as Henry hung up the receiver. “What’s Overaker want?”
Henry, staring out of the unwashed window, did not answer immediately. He appeared to be lost in a kind of trance, his lips parted in a dreamy smile. Bean put his hand on his arm, and shook him. “What’s up, Henry?”
“Funniest thing that ever happened,” muttered Henry, as if to himself. “Stacked.cards! All the time I was trying to sell Overaker, sitting right at his elbow was old man Hanly himself. Had the job in his pocket—all the time.” “Oh!” groaned Bean. “That robber. We could ’a done it for half.”
“At least,” agreed Henry. “But we couldn’t have done it as well. Hanly turns out beautiful stuff.”
Bean grunted. “Beautiful stuff—my grandmother! If you’d been worth a damn, Henry—” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Say, Henry, whatever gave you the idea you could go it alone? You got to be a salesman to run a business, Henry. An’ you’ll never make a salesman —-never in this world!”
Henry offered no protest. “YouTe right, Bean. That’s what Overaker said, too. Seems as if the Almighty meant people like me to work for somebody else.” “You’ll never get rich the way you’re going—that’s a cinch.”
Henry looked out of the window again. Then he opened the drawer of his desk, and took out the electrotype of the imprint that Molly had drawn for him. “It’s never seen ink,” he murmured dully, “An’ I guess it’s never goin’ to.”
THE office door opened and closed softly. “Why, Henry—what’s the matter?” It was not Bean’s voice, and Henry raised his head. Then he sprang to his feet, hands outstretched. “Why, Molly dear—how odd! I was just going to telephone you.”
She showed alarm. “Bad news, Henry? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
For a moment he made no answer, and his gaze was downcast. “Well,” he said at last, “no—not bad news, exactly. Fact is, I—-I’ve been offered a job.”
“A job?” echoed Bean.
Henry nodded. “Hanly seemed to take a shine to me—foreman of their composing room.” Shyly, he looked at his wife. “It—it’s a pretty good job, Molly. They pay better than the union scale.” A sudden, passionate gleam came into his eyes. “And oh, my dear, if you could only see their plant!”
Molly understood—understood it all, and without his hardly saying a word, he reflected afterward. “Oh,” she cried. “How wonderful! Why, Henry—you’ll be printing the Overaker catalog after all!”
Sadly, he fingered the shining copper of his imprint. “This won’t be on it, though. It—won’t ever be on anything.” “You’re wrong, Henry, dear,” she said quickly. She took his chin and raised it till his eyes met hers. “It will be on everything you do . . . even if nobody ever sees it. Pan never really blew his pipes. But people heard them, just the same . . . some people. They hear them still, Henry . . . some people.” “That’s a very pretty idea,” said Henry, thoughtfully. “It’s just what I was thinking. But I never could say it . . . never in the world.”