She would rather have despised him, except that he stopped by the office-boys' bench to pull their hair and tell them to read English dictionaries. And when Miss Moynihan looked dejected, Babson demanded of her, "What's trouble, girlie? Anybody I can lick for you? Glad to fire the owner, or anything. Haven't met you yet, but my name is Roosevelt, and I'm the new janitor," with a hundred other chuckling idiocies, till Miss Moynihan was happy again. Una warmed to his friendliness, like that of a tail-wagging little yellow pup.
And always she craved the touch of his dark, blunt, nervous hands. Whenever he lighted a cigarette she was startled by his masculine way of putting out the match and jerking it away from him in one abrupt motion.... She had never studied male mannerisms before. To Miss Golden of Panama men had always been "the boys."
All this time Walter Babson had never spoken to her.
CHAPTER V
The office-manager came casually up to Una's desk and said, "You haven't taken any dictation yet, have you?"
"No, but," with urgent eagerness, "I'd like-I'm quite fast in stenography."
"Well, Mr. Babson, in the editorial department, wants to give some dictation and you might try-"
Una was so excited that she called herself a silly little fool. She seized her untouched note-book, her pencils sharpened like lances, and tried to appear a very mouse of modesty as she marched down the office to take her first real dictation, to begin her triumphant career.... And to have Walter Babson, the beloved fool, speak to her.
It was a cold shock to have to stand waiting behind Babson while he rummaged in his roll-top desk and apparently tried to pull out his hair. He looked back at her and blurted, "Oh! You, Miss Golden? They said you'd take some dictation. Chase those blue-prints off that chair and sit down. Be ready in a sec."
While she sat on the edge of the chair Babson yanked out drawers, plunged his wriggling hands into folders, thrashed through a pile of papers and letters that over-flowed a wire basket, and even hauled a dictionary down from the top of the desk and hopefully peered inside the front cover. All the time he kept up comment at which Una smiled doubtfully, not quite sure whether it was meant for her or not:
"Now what the doggone doggonishness did I ever do with those doggone notes, anyway? I ask you, in the-Here they-Nope-"
At last he found inside a book on motor fuels the wad of copy-paper on which he had scrawled notes with a broad, soft pencil, and he began to dictate a short article on air-cooling. Una was terrified lest she be unable to keep up, but she had read recent numbers of the Gazette thoroughly, she had practised the symbols for motor technologies, and she was not troubled by being watched. Indeed, Babson seemed to have enough to do in keeping his restless spirit from performing the dismaying feat of leaping straight out of his body. He leaned back in his revolving desk-chair with a complaining squawk from the spring, he closed his eyes, put his fingers together piously, then seized the chair-arms and held them, while he cocked one eye open and squinted at a large alarm-clock on the desk. He sighed profoundly, bent forward, gazed at his ankle, and reached forward to scratch it. All this time he was dictating, now rapidly, now gurgling and grunting while he paused to find a word.
"Don't be so nervous!" Una wanted to scream at him, and she wanted to add, "You didn't ask my permission!" when he absently fumbled in a cigarette-box.
She didn't like Walter Babson, after all!
But he stopped after a rhapsody on the divine merits of an air-cooling system, clawed his billowing black hair, and sighed, "Sounds improbable, don't it? Must be true, though; it's going to appear in the Gazette, and that's the motor-dealer's bible. If you don't believe it, read the blurbs we publish about ourselves!" Then he solemnly winked at her and went on dictating.
When he had finished he demanded, "Ever take any dictation in this office before?"
"No, sir."
"Ever take any motor dictation at all?"
"No, sir."
"Then you'd better read that back to me. Your immejit boss-the office-manager-is all right, but the secretary of the company is always pussy-footing around, and if you're ever having any trouble with your stuff when old plush-ears is in sight, keep on typing fast, no matter what you put down. Now read me the dope."
It was approximately correct. He nodded, and, "Good work, little girl," he said. "You'll get along all right. You get my dictation better than that agitated antelope Miss Harman does, right now. That's all."
§ 2
So far as anything connected with Walter Babson could be regular, Una became his regular stenographer, besides keeping up her copying. He was always rushing out, apologizing for troubling her, sitting on the edge of her desk, dictating a short letter, and advising her to try his latest brand of health food, which, this spring, was bran biscuits-probably combined with highballs and too much coffee. The other stenographers winked at him, and he teased them about their coiffures and imaginary sweethearts.... For three days the women's coat-room boiled with giggles over Babson's declaration that Miss MacThrostle was engaged to a burglar, and was taking a correspondence course in engraving in order to decorate her poor dear husband's tools with birds and poetic mottoes.
Babson was less jocular with Una than with the bouncing girls who were natives of Harlem. But he smiled at her, as though they were understanding friends, and once he said, but quietly, rather respectfully, "You have nice hair-soft." She lay awake to croon that to herself, though she denied that she was in love with this eccentric waster.
Always Babson kept up his ejaculations and fidgeting. He often accused himself of shiftlessness and begged her to make sure that he dictated certain matter before he escaped for the evening. "Come in and bother the life out of me. Come in every half-hour," he would say. When she did come in he would crow and chuckle, "Nope. I refuse to be tempted yet; I am a busy man. But maybe I'll give you those verbal jewels of great price on your next visitation, oh thou in the vocative-some Latin scholar, eh? Keep it up, kid; good work. Maybe you'll keep me from being fired."
Usually he gave her the dictation before he went. But not always. And once he disappeared for four days-on a drunk, everybody said, in excited office gossip.
During Babson's desertion the managing editor called Una in and demanded, "Did Mr. Babson give you some copy about the Manning Wind Shield? No? Will you take a look in his desk for his notes about it?"
While Una was fumbling for the notes she did not expect to find, she went through all the agony of the little shawled foreign wife for the husband who has been arrested.
"I've got to help you!" she said to his desk, to his bag of Bull Durham, to his alarm-clock-even to a rather shocking collection of pictures of chorus-girls and diaphanously-clad dancers which was pasted inside the double drawer on the right side of the desk. In her great surge of emotion, she noticed these posturing hussies far less than she did a little volume of Rosetti, or the overshoes whose worn toes suddenly revealed to her that Walter Babson, the editor, was not rich-was not, perhaps, so very much better paid than herself.
She did not find the notes. She had to go to the managing editor, trembling, all her good little heart wild with pain. The editor's brows made a V at her report, and he grunted, "Well-"
For two days, till Walter Babson returned, she never failed to look up when the outer door of the office opened.
She found herself immensely interested in trying to discover, from her low plane as copyist, just what sort of a position Walter Babson occupied up among the select souls. Nor was it very difficult. The editor's stenographer may not appreciate all the subtleties of his wit, and the refinements of his manner may leave her cold, but she does hear things, she hears the Big Chief's complaints.