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The Romance of a Busy Brokerby O. H
The Romance of a Busy Broker
by O. Henry
Pitcher, confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at half past nine in company with his young lady stenographer. With a snappy "Good-morning, Pitcher," Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.
The young lady had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year. She was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She forewent the pomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion. In her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence.
Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence.
The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs.
"Well--what is it? Anything?" asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently.
"Nothing," answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile.
"Mr. Pitcher," she said to the confidential clerk, did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?"
"He did," answered Pitcher. "He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet."
"I will do the work as usual, then," said the young lady, "until some one comes to fill the place." And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place.
He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology. The poet sings of the "crowded hour of glorious life." The broker's hour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms.
And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day. The ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher's face relaxed into something resembling animation.
On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker's offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe dancer. He jumped from ticker to 'phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin.
In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her.
"Lady from the Stenographer's Agency to see about the position," said Pitcher.
Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape.
"What position?" he asked, with a frown.
"Position of stenographer," said Pitcher. "You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning."
"You are losing your mind, Pitcher," said Maxwell. "Why should I have given you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There's no place open here, madam. Countermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don't bring any more of 'em in here."
The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the "old man" seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.
The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell's customers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were imperilled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine--strung to full tension, going at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready and prompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities--here was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.
When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar.
Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. His window was open, for the beloved janitress Spring had turned on a little warmth through the waking registers of the earth.
And through the window came a wandering--perhaps a lost--odour--a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only.
The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she was in the next room--twenty steps away.
"By George, I'll do it now," said Maxwell, half aloud. "I'll ask her now. I wonder I didn't do it long ago."
He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.
She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.
"Miss Leslie," he began hurriedly, "I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you he my wife? I haven't had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please--those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific."
"Oh, what are you talking about?" exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed.
"Don't you understand?" said Maxwell, restively. "I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. They're calling me for the 'phone now. Tell 'em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won't you, Miss Leslie?"
The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker's neck.
"I know now," she said, softly. "It's this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time. I was frightened at first. Don't you remember, Harvey? We were married last evening at 8 o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner.
by O. Henry
Pitcher, confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at half past nine in company with his young lady stenographer. With a snappy "Good-morning, Pitcher," Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.
The young lady had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year. She was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She forewent the pomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion. In her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence.
Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence.
The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs.
"Well--what is it? Anything?" asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently.
"Nothing," answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile.
"Mr. Pitcher," she said to the confidential clerk, did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?"
"He did," answered Pitcher. "He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet."
"I will do the work as usual, then," said the young lady, "until some one comes to fill the place." And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place.
He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology. The poet sings of the "crowded hour of glorious life." The broker's hour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms.
And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day. The ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher's face relaxed into something resembling animation.
On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker's offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe dancer. He jumped from ticker to 'phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin.
In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her.
"Lady from the Stenographer's Agency to see about the position," said Pitcher.
Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape.
"What position?" he asked, with a frown.
"Position of stenographer," said Pitcher. "You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning."
"You are losing your mind, Pitcher," said Maxwell. "Why should I have given you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There's no place open here, madam. Countermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don't bring any more of 'em in here."
The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the "old man" seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.
The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell's customers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were imperilled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine--strung to full tension, going at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready and prompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities--here was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.
When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar.
Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. His window was open, for the beloved janitress Spring had turned on a little warmth through the waking registers of the earth.
And through the window came a wandering--perhaps a lost--odour--a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only.
The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she was in the next room--twenty steps away.
"By George, I'll do it now," said Maxwell, half aloud. "I'll ask her now. I wonder I didn't do it long ago."
He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.
She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.
"Miss Leslie," he began hurriedly, "I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you he my wife? I haven't had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please--those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific."
"Oh, what are you talking about?" exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed.
"Don't you understand?" said Maxwell, restively. "I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. They're calling me for the 'phone now. Tell 'em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won't you, Miss Leslie?"
The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker's neck.
"I know now," she said, softly. "It's this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time. I was frightened at first. Don't you remember, Harvey? We were married last evening at 8 o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner.
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Sự lãng mạn của một nhà môi giới bận rộnbởi O. HenryCầu thủ giao bóng, bí mật thư ký tại văn phòng của Harvey Maxwell, môi giới, cho phép một cái nhìn nhẹ quan tâm và bất ngờ đến thăm ông countenance vẻ thường expressionless khi chủ nhân của mình rất chạy vào lúc nửa qua chín cùng với đóng nữ trẻ của mình. Với một linh hoạt "tốt-chào Pitcher," Maxwell tiêu tan tại bàn của mình như là mặc dù ông đã có ý định nhảy trên nó, và sau đó rơi vào đống lớn của chữ cái và điện tín chờ đợi ở đó cho anh ta.Người phụ nữ trẻ đã Maxwell đóng trong một năm. Cô ấy là đẹp theo cách đó là decidedly unstenographic. Cô forewent lên quy-lát pompadour hấp dẫn. Cô mặc không có dây chuyền, vòng tay hoặc lockets. Cô đã có không phải không khí là về để chấp nhận một lời mời đến bữa tiệc trưa. Trang phục của cô là màu xám và đồng bằng, nhưng nó được con số của mình với độ trung thực và ý. Trong cô khăn xếp gọn gàng đen hat là cánh xanh vàng macaw một. Vào ngày sáng nay cô là nhẹ nhàng và shyly rạng rỡ. Đôi mắt của cô dreamily tươi sáng, bà peachblow chính hãng má, biểu hiện của cô một hạnh phúc, tinged với reminiscence.Cầu thủ giao bóng, vẫn còn hơi tò mò, nhận thấy một sự khác biệt trong cách của cô sáng nay. Thay vì đi thẳng vào phòng liền kề, nơi bàn của cô, cô lingered, hơi irresolute, trong văn phòng bên ngoài. Một lần, nó di chuyển lên bởi Maxwell bàn, gần đủ cho anh ta để được nhận thức của sự hiện diện của mình.Máy ngồi ở bàn đó đã không còn là một người đàn ông; đó là một môi giới New York bận rộn, di chuyển bằng bánh xe ù và suối uncoiling."Vâng... những gì là nó? Bất cứ điều gì?"hỏi Maxwell mạnh. Của mình thư mở nằm như một ngân hàng của giai đoạn tuyết trên bàn làm việc của ông đông đúc. Con mắt màu xám quan tâm của mình, nhân hóa và brusque, nhảy theo một nửa của mình impatiently.Được trả lời "Không có gì," đóng, di chuyển đi với một nụ cười rất ít."Ông Pitcher," cô nói cho người thư ký bí mật, đã làm ông Maxwell nói bất cứ điều gì vào ngày hôm qua về tham gia đóng một?""Ông đã làm," trả lời bình. "Ông nói với tôi để có được một số khác. Tôi thông báo chiều hôm qua cơ quan để gửi qua một vài mẫu sáng nay. Bây giờ là 9,45 giờ, và không một hat hình ảnh duy nhất hoặc mảnh của dứa kẹo cao su đã cho thấy được.""Tôi sẽ làm việc như bình thường, sau đó," nói nữ trẻ, "cho đến khi một trong một số đi kèm để điền vào nơi." Và cô ấy đã đi đến bàn của mình cùng một lúc và treo mũ đen khăn xếp của cánh xanh vàng macaw, vị trí quen của nó.Ông những người đã bị từ chối những cảnh tượng của một nhà môi giới Manhattan bận rộn trong một cơn sốt của doanh nghiệp là tàn tật cho nghề nghiệp của nhân chủng học. Nhà thơ hát của "đông đúc giờ của cuộc sống vinh quang." Các nhà môi giới giờ là không chỉ đông đúc, nhưng phút và giây được treo để tất cả các quai và bao bì trước và phía sau các nền tảng.Và ngày này là ngày bận rộn của Harvey Maxwell. Ticker bắt đầu cuộn ra jerkily của nó cuộn giấc băng, điện thoại bàn đã có một cơn đau mãn tính của ù. Người đàn ông bắt đầu throng vào văn phòng và gọi lúc anh ta qua Lan can, jovially, mạnh, viciously, hào hứng. Bé trai Messenger chạy vào và ra với tin nhắn và điện tín. Nhân viên trong văn phòng nhảy về như thủy thủ trong một cơn bão. Thậm chí Pitcher của mặt thư giãn vào một cái gì đó tương tự như hình ảnh động.Trao đổi có lũ lụt và lở đất và snowstorms và sông băng và núi lửa, và các rối loạn nguyên tố đã được sao chép trong thu nhỏ trong văn phòng của các nhà môi giới. Maxwell Xô đẩy ghế của mình chống lại các bức tường và transacted kinh doanh sau khi theo cách của một diễn viên múa ngón chân. Ông đã nhảy từ ticker để ' điện thoại, bàn đến cửa với sự nhanh nhẹn đào tạo như một harlequin.Ở giữa này căng thẳng ngày càng tăng và quan trọng các nhà môi giới trở thành đột nhiên nhận thức của một cán cao rìa của tóc vàng dưới một tán cây nodding Nhung và Đà điểu Mẹo, một giả sealskin sacque và một loạt các hạt lớn như hạt dẻ hickory, kết thúc gần sàn nhà với một trái tim bạc. Có là một cô gái trẻ tự sở hữu được kết nối với các phụ kiện; và cầu thủ giao bóng đã có để phân giải cô ấy."Lady từ đóng của cơ quan để xem về vị trí," nói Pitcher.Maxwell bật một nửa xung quanh, với bàn tay của mình đầy đủ các giấy tờ và băng ticker."Những gì số." ông yêu cầu, với một nhăn."Vị trí đóng," nói Pitcher. "Bạn nói với tôi hôm qua để gọi cho họ và có một gửi qua sáng nay.""Bạn đang mất tâm trí của bạn, Pitcher,", ông Maxwell. "Tại sao nên tôi đã đưa cho bạn bất kỳ hướng dẫn nào như vậy? Hoa hậu Leslie đã cho sự hài lòng hoàn hảo trong năm cô ấy ở đây. Nơi này là cô chừng nào cô lựa chọn để duy trì nó. Đó là không có chỗ mở ở đây, thưa bà. Countermand theo thứ tự đó với cơ quan, cầu thủ giao bóng, và không mang lại bất kỳ thêm của họ ở đây."Trung tâm bạc rời văn phòng, swinging và đập chính nó một cách độc lập chống lại các đồ nội thất văn phòng như nó indignantly rời. Cầu thủ giao bóng chiếm một chút thời gian để nhận xét để nhân viên kế toán rằng "ông già" có vẻ để có được hơn vắng mặt-minded và quên mỗi ngày trên thế giới.Vội vàng và tốc độ của kinh doanh phát triển áp và nhanh hơn. Trên sàn nhà, họ đã đập một nửa tá cổ phiếu trong đó Maxwell của khách hàng là nhà đầu tư nặng. Đơn đặt hàng để mua và bán được đến và đi swift chuyến bay của nuốt. Một số riêng của ông đã được imperilled, và người đàn ông đã làm việc như một số máy hướng cao, tinh tế, mạnh mẽ - strung đầy căng thẳng, sẽ ở tốc độ cao, chính xác, không bao giờ do dự, với từ thích hợp và quyết định và hành động sẵn sàng và nhanh chóng như clockwork. Cổ phiếu và trái phiếu, các khoản vay và thế chấp, lợi nhuận và chứng khoán - đây là một thế giới của tài chính, và có là không có chỗ trong nó cho thế giới con người hay thế giới của thiên nhiên.Khi bữa tiệc trưa giờ đã thu hút gần có đến một ru ngu nhẹ trong các tiếng huyên náo.Maxwell đứng bởi bàn của mình với bàn tay của mình đầy đủ các điện tín và memoranda, với một bút trên tai của mình đúng và mái tóc của mình, treo trong chuỗi gây mất trật tự trên trán của mình. Cửa sổ của ông đã được mở, cho janitress yêu mùa xuân đã bật một chút ấm áp thông qua đăng ký thức dậy của trái đất.Và thông qua cửa sổ đến một lang thang - có lẽ một mất--mùi--một mùi tinh tế, ngọt của lilac cố định các nhà môi giới cho một thời điểm bất động. Cho mùi này thuộc về Hoa hậu Leslie; nó là của riêng, của cô và cô ấy chỉ.Mùi mang cô ấy sinh động, gần như tangibly trước khi anh ta. Thế giới của tài chính thu hẹp đột nhiên đến một hạt. Và cô ấy đã ở phòng kế tiếp - hai mươi bước đi."Bởi George, tôi sẽ làm điều đó bây giờ," ông Maxwell, một nửa aloud. "Tôi sẽ hỏi cô bây giờ. Tôi tự hỏi tôi đã không làm điều đó lâu trước đây."Ông tiêu tan vào văn phòng bên trong với sự vội vàng của một đoạn ngắn cố gắng để trang trải. Ông tính khi bàn làm việc của đóng.Cô nhìn lên lúc anh ta với một nụ cười. Một màu hồng mềm crept trong má của mình, và đôi mắt của cô đã là loại và frank. Maxwell cúi một khuỷu tay trên bàn làm việc của cô. Ông vẫn còn cắp rung cánh giấy tờ với cả hai tay và cây bút trên tai của mình."Hoa hậu Leslie," ông bắt đầu nhanh chóng, "tôi có nhưng một chút thời gian để phụ tùng. Tôi muốn nói điều gì đó trong thời điểm đó. Sẽ bạn ông vợ tôi? Tôi đã không có thời gian để làm cho tình yêu cho bạn trong cách bình thường, nhưng tôi thực sự yêu thương bạn. Nói chuyện nhanh chóng, xin vui lòng--những nghiên cứu sinh clubbing nhồi ra khỏi Liên minh Thái Bình Dương. ""Oh, những gì bạn nói về?" kêu lên người phụ nữ trẻ. Cô lên đôi chân của mình và nhìn khi anh ta, round-eyed."Không bạn hiểu?", ông Maxwell, restively. "Tôi muốn bạn kết hôn với tôi. Tôi yêu bạn, Hoa hậu Leslie. Tôi muốn nói với bạn, và tôi snatched một phút khi mọi thứ đã đạt lên một chút. Họ đang gọi điện thoại tôi cho các ' điện thoại bây giờ. Nói họ chờ một chút, Pitcher. Phải không, Hoa hậu Leslie? "Đóng hành động rất queerly. Ban đầu bà dường như vượt qua với sự ngạc nhiên; sau đó nước mắt chảy từ đôi mắt của cô tự hỏi; và sau đó, cô cười sunnily qua chúng, và một trong cánh tay của cô trượt tenderly về các nhà môi giới cổ."Tôi biết bây giờ," cô nói, nhẹ nhàng. "Nó là kinh doanh cũ này đã thúc đẩy tất cả mọi thứ khác ra khỏi đầu của bạn cho thời gian. Tôi đã sợ hãi lúc đầu tiên. Không nhớ, Harvey? Chúng tôi đã lập gia đình các buổi tối cuối cùng lúc 8: 00 tại nhà thờ nhỏ xung quanh thành phố the Corner.
đang được dịch, vui lòng đợi..
The Romance of a Busy Broker
by O. Henry
Pitcher, confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at half past nine in company with his young lady stenographer. With a snappy "Good-morning, Pitcher," Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.
The young lady had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year. She was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She forewent the pomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion. In her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence.
Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence.
The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs.
"Well--what is it? Anything?" asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently.
"Nothing," answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile.
"Mr. Pitcher," she said to the confidential clerk, did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?"
"He did," answered Pitcher. "He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet."
"I will do the work as usual, then," said the young lady, "until some one comes to fill the place." And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place.
He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology. The poet sings of the "crowded hour of glorious life." The broker's hour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms.
And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day. The ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher's face relaxed into something resembling animation.
On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker's offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe dancer. He jumped from ticker to 'phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin.
In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her.
"Lady from the Stenographer's Agency to see about the position," said Pitcher.
Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape.
"What position?" he asked, with a frown.
"Position of stenographer," said Pitcher. "You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning."
"You are losing your mind, Pitcher," said Maxwell. "Why should I have given you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There's no place open here, madam. Countermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don't bring any more of 'em in here."
The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the "old man" seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.
The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell's customers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were imperilled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine--strung to full tension, going at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready and prompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities--here was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.
When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar.
Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. His window was open, for the beloved janitress Spring had turned on a little warmth through the waking registers of the earth.
And through the window came a wandering--perhaps a lost--odour--a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only.
The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she was in the next room--twenty steps away.
"By George, I'll do it now," said Maxwell, half aloud. "I'll ask her now. I wonder I didn't do it long ago."
He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.
She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.
"Miss Leslie," he began hurriedly, "I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you he my wife? I haven't had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please--those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific."
"Oh, what are you talking about?" exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed.
"Don't you understand?" said Maxwell, restively. "I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. They're calling me for the 'phone now. Tell 'em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won't you, Miss Leslie?"
The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker's neck.
"I know now," she said, softly. "It's this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time. I was frightened at first. Don't you remember, Harvey? We were married last evening at 8 o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner.
by O. Henry
Pitcher, confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at half past nine in company with his young lady stenographer. With a snappy "Good-morning, Pitcher," Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.
The young lady had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year. She was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She forewent the pomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion. In her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence.
Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence.
The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs.
"Well--what is it? Anything?" asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently.
"Nothing," answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile.
"Mr. Pitcher," she said to the confidential clerk, did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?"
"He did," answered Pitcher. "He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet."
"I will do the work as usual, then," said the young lady, "until some one comes to fill the place." And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place.
He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology. The poet sings of the "crowded hour of glorious life." The broker's hour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms.
And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day. The ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher's face relaxed into something resembling animation.
On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker's offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe dancer. He jumped from ticker to 'phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin.
In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her.
"Lady from the Stenographer's Agency to see about the position," said Pitcher.
Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape.
"What position?" he asked, with a frown.
"Position of stenographer," said Pitcher. "You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning."
"You are losing your mind, Pitcher," said Maxwell. "Why should I have given you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There's no place open here, madam. Countermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don't bring any more of 'em in here."
The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the "old man" seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.
The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell's customers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were imperilled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine--strung to full tension, going at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready and prompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities--here was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.
When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar.
Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. His window was open, for the beloved janitress Spring had turned on a little warmth through the waking registers of the earth.
And through the window came a wandering--perhaps a lost--odour--a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only.
The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she was in the next room--twenty steps away.
"By George, I'll do it now," said Maxwell, half aloud. "I'll ask her now. I wonder I didn't do it long ago."
He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.
She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.
"Miss Leslie," he began hurriedly, "I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you he my wife? I haven't had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please--those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific."
"Oh, what are you talking about?" exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed.
"Don't you understand?" said Maxwell, restively. "I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. They're calling me for the 'phone now. Tell 'em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won't you, Miss Leslie?"
The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker's neck.
"I know now," she said, softly. "It's this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time. I was frightened at first. Don't you remember, Harvey? We were married last evening at 8 o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner.
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