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Osgood wrote, and on Monday morning his letter came to the hand of Mr. Wintermuth, whose eye brightened at the sight of his friend's signature. But there was no pleasure in his tone when a moment later he sent for Mr. Gunterson. "Look here," he said, "I'm afraid these Eastern Conference people mean trouble. We've been assuming that the excepted cities were safe nothing could happen there.
"What were you going to say?" "I guess I'd better not say it," responded the local underwriter with deliberation. "Go ahead," said his chief. "Well, then," the other answered, "I was going to say 'To hell with Gunterson!" Mr. Wintermuth leaned back in his chair, with his eyes fixed on his subordinate. "Cuyler," he said, "Mr.
Wintermuth in his best constructive days had suddenly grown to creak painfully in its joints. The heads of departments, seeing no inspiring or even efficient leadership above them, had become discouraged, and there had been no one to brace their failing spirits. Mr. Cuyler and Mr.
Wintermuth, who for some years past had given little attention to the details of the local business, knew that the firm in question was one of high standing. "Of One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street?" Smith asked. "Yes. You know them? They have an agency, then?" Mr. Whitehill responded. "They certainly have," replied the other.
It was everywhere an arbitrary body, and its New York State branch was perhaps the least disciplined of any of its constituent parts, and was moreover suspected of favoring some of its own members at the expense of others. President Wintermuth, loyal to his associates, but patient only up to a certain point, had of late begun to consider that his company was decidedly in the latter class.
Whoever might sail the seas in ships of illusion regarding the Vice-president of the Guardian, Smith saw the facts clear and looked at them squarely. The principal cause of Smith's own position in the company was his own vitality and industry, but next to that was the fact that Mr. Wintermuth had originally given him a chance and then declined to permit any one to impede his natural progression.
Wintermuth he sent a telegram which read concisely, "Closed Sternberg, Bloom, and McCoy agency. Smith." He then sought a telephone booth. "Hello. Is this Mr. Silas Osgood? Yes, I'd like very much to see you. That's very good of you to say so. Yes, last evening I called for a few minutes. Can't you take lunch with me at the Touraine? Good in about half an hour."
You are a close enough student of the game to know that that was just about forty years ago." Smith nodded. "Before Richard Smith was born. But I remember the date. Who appointed you as agent?" Mr. Osgood pointed to the scrawl at the foot of the framed commission. "My old friend, James Wintermuth," he said. He paused a moment.
"They are as desirable agents as there are up town, and they represent the Essex of England, the Austrian National, and," he glanced at his chief, "the Salamander of New York." Mr. Wintermuth found no words. "Now, Mr. Whitehill," said Smith, "they are the people we want as branch managers. Our interests would be safe in their hands.
The appointment received perhaps its most kindly treatment from those most directly concerned. Mr. Wintermuth did not know anything about Sternberg, Bloom, and McCoy in fact, he had never heard of them. And so, when Mr.
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