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Updated: May 25, 2025
Guilfogle." "He's busy, but if you'll sit down I think you can see him in a few minutes." Mr. Wrenn felt like the prodigal son, with no calf in sight, at having to wait on the callers' bench, but he shook with faint excited gurgles of mirth at the thought of the delightful surprise Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle, the office manager, was going to have. He kept an eye out for Charley Carpenter.
Guilfogle, was that this Wrenn had a higher average of punctuality than any one else in the office, which proved that he knew better. Worst of all, the Guilfogle family eggs had not been scrambled right at breakfast; they had been anemic. Mr. Guilfogle punched the buzzer and set his face toward the door, with a scowl prepared. Mr. Wrenn seemed weary, and not so intimidated as usual.
Wrenn, had entirely lost the heart and hand of Miss Zapp of the F. F. V. He stood before the manager's god-like desk on June 14, 1910. Sadly: "Good-by, Mr. Guilfogle. Leaving to-day. I wish Gee! I wish I could tell you, you know about how much I appreciate "
"Why, I went to Liverpool and Oxford and London and well Kew and Ealing and places and And I tramped through Essex and Suffolk all through on foot. Aengusmere and them places." "Just a moment. Why certainly. I've told you that already about five times. Yes, I said that's what I had the samples made up for. Say, did you notice any novelties we could copy?" "No, I'm afraid I didn't, Mr. Guilfogle.
But that was a complete misunderstanding of the case. The manager of the Souvenir Company was Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle, and he called Mr. Wrenn in to acquaint him with that fact when the new magnate started his career in Big Business by arriving at the office one hour late. What made it worse, considered Mr.
Wrenn, smiled, put on the look he used when inviting him out for a drink. Mr. Guilfogle was essentially an honest fellow, harshened by The Job; a well-satisfied victim, with the imagination clean gone out of him, so that he took follow-up letters and the celerity of office-boys as the only serious things in the world. He was strong, alive, not at all a bad chap, merely efficient.
They had finished two hot games of pinochle, and sat with their feet on a small amiable oil-stove. Mr. Wrenn laid her hand against his cheek with infinite content. He was outlining the situation at the office. The business had so increased that Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle, the manager, had told Rabin, the head traveling-salesman, that he was going to appoint an assistant manager. Should he, Mr.
To-day historians have established the date as April 9, 1910 there had been some confusing mixed orders from the Wisconsin retailers, and Mr. Wrenn had been "called down" by the office manager, Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle. He needed the friendly nod of the Nickelorion ticket-taker.
Guilfogle allowed him to have his letters to the trade copied by carbon paper instead of having them blurred by the wet tissue-paper of a copy-book. The kindness of chiefs! For Mr. Not only that. Mr. Guilfogle slapped him on the back and said: "You're doing good work, old man. It's fine. I just don't want you to be too reckless." That night Wrenn worked till eight.
Just then he met them in the corridor, all of them except Guilfogle, headed by Rabin, the traveling salesman, and Charley Carpenter, who was bearing a box of handkerchiefs with a large green-and-crimson-paper label.
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