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Updated: May 8, 2025
Beagle senior used to stand on the little balcony at the rear of the main floor, transfixed with the pleasure of seeing Gissing move among the crowded passages. Alert, watchful, urbane, with just the ideal blend of courtesy and condescension, he raised floorwalking to a social art.
There were many husbands who would have been glad to shoot him at sight on the first of the month, had they known who was the real cause of their woe. Indeed, Gissing had raised floorwalking to a new level. He was more prime minister than a mere patroller of aisles. With sparkling eye, with unending curiosity, tact, and attention, he moved quietly among the throng.
He wanted to say that if he was going to consecrate himself to floorwalking, he would relish a raise in salary; but old Beagle was so tremulous and kept blowing his nose so loudly that Gissing doubted if he could make himself heard. "I want you to take a position as General Manager," said Mr. Beagle, "with a salary of ten thousand a year."
"There is a little matter that we have not discussed. The question of salary." Mr. Beagle looked thoughtfully out of the window. "Thirty dollars a week," he said. After all, Gissing thought, it will only take four weeks to pay for what I have spent on clothes. There was some dramatic nerve in Gissing's nature that responded eloquently to the floorwalking job.
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