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Dalyrimple rather resented the presence of the store detective as he resented the time-clock, and he came into contact with him almost immediately through the rule against smoking. This rule was a thorn in his side.
The next passer, he felt, would be what he wanted . . . the laborer's footfalls died far up the drenched street . . . other steps grew nears grew suddenly louder. Dalyrimple braced himself. "Put up your hands!" The man stopped, uttered an absurd little grunt, and thrust pudgy arms skyward. Dalyrimple went through the waistcoat.
"I'm glad we're to be associated in this scheme I've been for you all along especially lately. I'm glad we're to be on the same side of the fence." "I want to thank you, sir," said Dalyrimple simply. He felt a whimsical moisture gathering back of his eyes. The Four Fists
It was early afternoon when he walked into the office of Theron G. Macy, who owned the largest wholesale grocery house in town. Plump, prosperous, wearing a pleasant but quite unhumorous smile, Theron G. Macy greeted him warmly. "Well how do, Bryan? What's on your mind?" To Dalyrimple, straining with his admission, his own words, when they came, sounded like an Arab beggar's whine for alms.
"Dalyrimple, you've got brains and you've got the stuff in you and that's what I want. I'm going to put you into the State Senate." "The WHAT?" "The State Senate. We want a young man who has got brains, but is solid and not a loafer. And when I say State Senate I don't stop there. We're up against it here, Dalyrimple.
Macy disparaged this neatly, and then continued: "What do you think you're worth?" "I don't know." "Well, Bryan, I tell you, I'm willing to strain a point and give you a chance." Dalyrimple nodded. "Your salary won't be much. You'll start by learning the stock. Then you'll come in the office for a while. Then you'll go on the road. When could you begin?" "How about to-morrow?" "All right.
There were just thirteen. "This is in the way of a permanent goodbye. I should suggest Italy. "Lois." "Tore it up, eh?" said the second clerk. Dalyrimple Goes Wrong In the millennium an educational genius will write a book to be given to every young man on the date of his disillusion.
He knew exactly what Dalyrimple was doing, and Dalyrimple knew he knew. "I'm in the stock-room and, sir, while I'm here I'd like to ask you how much longer I'll have to stay there." "Why I'm not sure exactly. Of course it takes some time to learn the stock." "You told me two months when I started." "Yes. Well, I'll speak to Mr. Hanson." Dalyrimple paused irresolute. "Thank you, sir."
In him could be stirred up all the flamings and denunciations of righteousness; he would weep at a stage heroine's lost virtue, he could become lofty and contemptuous at the idea of dishonor. On my side, thought Dalyrimple, there aren't any resting-places; a man who's a strong criminal is after the weak criminals as well, so it's all guerilla warfare over here.
Fraser's expression had now reached the point nearest a smile and Dalyrimple in a happy frivolity felt himself urging it mentally on but it stopped, locked, and slid from him. The barn-door and the jaw were separated by a line strait as a nail. Dalyrimple remembered with an effort that it was a mouth, and talked to it. "But I'm through," he said. "My notoriety's dead. People are fed up with me."
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