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diff --git a/1820-0.txt b/1820-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c6cc414 --- /dev/null +++ b/1820-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,979 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Wasted Day, by Richard Harding Davis + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Wasted Day + +Author: Richard Harding Davis + +Release Date: May 12, 2006 [EBook #1820] +Last Updated: September 26, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WASTED DAY *** + + + + +Produced by Don Lainson + + + + + +A WASTED DAY + + +By Richard Harding Davis + + + +When its turn came, the private secretary, somewhat apologetically, laid +the letter in front of the Wisest Man in Wall Street. + +“From Mrs. Austin, probation officer, Court of General Sessions,” he +explained. “Wants a letter about Spear. He’s been convicted of theft. +Comes up for sentence Tuesday.” + +“Spear?” repeated Arnold Thorndike. + +“Young fellow, stenographer, used to do your letters last summer going +in and out on the train.” + +The great man nodded. “I remember. What about him?” + +The habitual gloom of the private secretary was lightened by a grin. + +“Went on the loose; had with him about five hundred dollars belonging to +the firm; he’s with Isaacs & Sons now, shoe people on Sixth Avenue. Met +a woman, and woke up without the money. The next morning he offered to +make good, but Isaacs called in a policeman. When they looked into it, +they found the boy had been drunk. They tried to withdraw the charge, +but he’d been committed. Now, the probation officer is trying to get the +judge to suspend sentence. A letter from you, sir, would--” + +It was evident the mind of the great man was elsewhere. Young men who, +drunk or sober, spent the firm’s money on women who disappeared before +sunrise did not appeal to him. Another letter submitted that morning +had come from his art agent in Europe. In Florence he had discovered the +Correggio he had been sent to find. It was undoubtedly genuine, and he +asked to be instructed by cable. The price was forty thousand dollars. +With one eye closed, and the other keenly regarding the inkstand, +Mr. Thorndike decided to pay the price; and with the facility of long +practice dismissed the Correggio, and snapped his mind back to the +present. + +“Spear had a letter from us when he left, didn’t he?” he asked. “What he +has developed into, SINCE he left us--” he shrugged his shoulders. The +secretary withdrew the letter, and slipped another in its place. + +“Homer Firth, the landscape man,” he chanted, “wants permission to use +blue flint on the new road, with turf gutters, and to plant silver firs +each side. Says it will run to about five thousand dollars a mile.” + +“No!” protested the great man firmly, “blue flint makes a country place +look like a cemetery. Mine looks too much like a cemetery now. Landscape +gardeners!” he exclaimed impatiently. “Their only idea is to insult +nature. The place was better the day I bought it, when it was running +wild; you could pick flowers all the way to the gates.” Pleased that +it should have recurred to him, the great man smiled. “Why, Spear,” he +exclaimed, “always took in a bunch of them for his mother. Don’t you +remember, we used to see him before breakfast wandering around the +grounds picking flowers?” Mr. Thorndike nodded briskly. “I like his +taking flowers to his mother.” + +“He SAID it was to his mother,” suggested the secretary gloomily. + +“Well, he picked the flowers, anyway,” laughed Mr. Thorndike. “He didn’t +pick our pockets. And he had the run of the house in those days. As +far as we know,” he dictated, “he was satisfactory. Don’t say more than +that.” + +The secretary scribbled a mark with his pencil. “And the landscape man?” + +“Tell him,” commanded Thorndike, “I want a wood road, suitable to a +farm; and to let the trees grow where God planted them.” + +As his car slid downtown on Tuesday morning the mind of Arnold Thorndike +was occupied with such details of daily routine as the purchase of a +railroad, the Japanese loan, the new wing to his art gallery, and an +attack that morning, in his own newspaper, upon his pet trust. But his +busy mind was not too occupied to return the salutes of the traffic +policemen who cleared the way for him. Or, by some genius of memory, +to recall the fact that it was on this morning young Spear was to be +sentenced for theft. It was a charming morning. The spring was at +full tide, and the air was sweet and clean. Mr. Thorndike considered +whimsically that to send a man to jail with the memory of such a morning +clinging to him was adding a year to his sentence. He regretted he had +not given the probation officer a stronger letter. He remembered the +young man now, and favorably. A shy, silent youth, deft in work, and +at other times conscious and embarrassed. But that, on the part of a +stenographer, in the presence of the Wisest Man in Wall Street, was not +unnatural. On occasions, Mr. Thorndike had put even royalty--frayed, +impecunious royalty, on the lookout for a loan--at its ease. + +The hood of the car was down, and the taste of the air, warmed by the +sun, was grateful. It was at this time, a year before, that young Spear +picked the spring flowers to take to his mother. A year from now where +would young Spear be? + +It was characteristic of the great man to act quickly, so quickly +that his friends declared he was a slave to impulse. It was these same +impulses, leading so invariably to success, that made his enemies +call him the Wisest Man. He leaned forward and touched the chauffeur’s +shoulder. “Stop at the Court of General Sessions,” he commanded. What +he proposed to do would take but a few minutes. A word, a personal word +from him to the district attorney, or the judge, would be enough. He +recalled that a Sunday Special had once calculated that the working time +of Arnold Thorndike brought him in two hundred dollars a minute. At that +rate, keeping Spear out of prison would cost a thousand dollars. + + +Out of the sunshine Mr. Thorndike stepped into the gloom of an echoing +rotunda, shut in on every side, hung by balconies, lit, many stories +overhead, by a dirty skylight. The place was damp, the air acrid with +the smell of stale tobacco juice, and foul with the presence of many +unwashed humans. A policeman, chewing stolidly, nodded toward an +elevator shaft, and other policemen nodded him further on to the office +of the district attorney. There Arnold Thorndike breathed more freely. +He was again among his own people. He could not help but appreciate the +dramatic qualities of the situation; that the richest man in Wall Street +should appear in person to plead for a humble and weaker brother. He +knew he could not escape recognition, his face was too well known, but, +he trusted, for the sake of Spear, the reporters would make no display +of his visit. With a deprecatory laugh, he explained why he had come. +But the outburst of approbation he had anticipated did not follow. + +The district attorney ran his finger briskly down a printed card. +“Henry Spear,” he exclaimed, “that’s your man. Part Three, Judge Fallon. +Andrews is in that court.” He walked to the door of his private office. +“Andrews!” he called. + +He introduced an alert, broad-shouldered young man of years of much +indiscretion and with a charming and inconsequent manner. + +“Mr. Thorndike is interested in Henry Spear, coming up for sentence +in Part Three this morning. Wants to speak for him. Take him over with +you.” + +The district attorney shook hands quickly, and retreated to his private +office. Mr. Andrews took out a cigarette and, as he crossed the floor, +lit it. + +“Come with me,” he commanded. Somewhat puzzled, slightly annoyed, but +enjoying withal the novelty of the environment and the curtness of his +reception, Mr. Thorndike followed. He decided that, in his ignorance, he +had wasted his own time and that of the prosecuting attorney. He should +at once have sent in his card to the judge. As he understood it, Mr. +Andrews was now conducting him to that dignitary, and, in a moment, he +would be free to return to his own affairs, which were the affairs of +two continents. But Mr. Andrews led him to an office, bare and small, +and offered him a chair, and handed him a morning newspaper. There +were people waiting in the room; strange people, only like those Mr. +Thorndike had seen on ferry-boats. They leaned forward toward young Mr. +Andrews, fawning, their eyes wide with apprehension. + +Mr. Thorndike refused the newspaper. “I thought I was going to see the +judge,” he suggested. + +“Court doesn’t open for a few minutes yet,” said the assistant district +attorney. “Judge is always late, anyway.” + +Mr. Thorndike suppressed an exclamation. He wanted to protest, but his +clear mind showed him that there was nothing against which, with reason, +he could protest. He could not complain because these people were not +apparently aware of the sacrifice he was making. He had come among them +to perform a kindly act. He recognized that he must not stultify it by a +show of irritation. He had precipitated himself into a game of which he +did not know the rules. That was all. Next time he would know better. +Next time he would send a clerk. But he was not without a sense of +humor, and the situation as it now was forced upon him struck him as +amusing. He laughed good-naturedly and reached for the desk telephone. + +“May I use this?” he asked. He spoke to the Wall Street office. He +explained he would be a few minutes late. He directed what should be +done if the market opened in a certain way. He gave rapid orders on many +different matters, asked to have read to him a cablegram he expected +from Petersburg, and one from Vienna. + +“They answer each other,” was his final instruction. “It looks like +peace.” + +Mr. Andrews with genial patience had remained silent. Now he turned +upon his visitors. A Levantine, burly, unshaven, and soiled, towered +truculently above him. Young Mr. Andrews with his swivel chair tilted +back, his hands clasped behind his head, his cigarette hanging from his +lips, regarded the man dispassionately. + +“You gotta hell of a nerve to come to see me,” he commented cheerfully. +To Mr. Thorndike, the form of greeting was novel. So greatly did it +differ from the procedure of his own office, that he listened with +interest. + +“Was it you,” demanded young Andrews, in a puzzled tone, “or your +brother who tried to knife me?” Mr. Thorndike, unaccustomed to cross +the pavement to his office unless escorted by bank messengers and +plain-clothes men, felt the room growing rapidly smaller; the figure of +the truculent Greek loomed to heroic proportions. The hand of the banker +went vaguely to his chin, and from there fell to his pearl pin, which he +hastily covered. + +“Get out!” said young Andrews, “and don’t show your face here--” + +The door slammed upon the flying Greek. Young Andrews swung his swivel +chair so that, over his shoulder, he could see Mr. Thorndike. “I don’t +like his face,” he explained. + +A kindly eyed, sad woman with a basket on her knee smiled upon Andrews +with the familiarity of an old acquaintance. + +“Is that woman going to get a divorce from my son,” she asked, “now that +he’s in trouble?” + +“Now that he’s in Sing Sing?” corrected Mr. Andrews. “I HOPE so! She +deserves it. That son of yours, Mrs. Bernard,” he declared emphatically, +“is no good!” + +The brutality shocked Mr. Thorndike. For the woman he felt a thrill of +sympathy, but at once saw that it was superfluous. From the secure and +lofty heights of motherhood, Mrs. Bernard smiled down upon the assistant +district attorney as upon a naughty child. She did not even deign a +protest. She continued merely to smile. The smile reminded Thorndike of +the smile on the face of a mother in a painting by Murillo he had lately +presented to the chapel in the college he had given to his native town. + +“That son of yours,” repeated young Andrews, “is a leech. He’s robbed +you, robbed his wife. Best thing I ever did for YOU was to send him up +the river.” + +The mother smiled upon him beseechingly. + +“Could you give me a pass?” she said. + +Young Andrews flung up his hands and appealed to Thorndike. + +“Isn’t that just like a mother?” he protested. “That son of hers has +broken her heart, tramped on her, cheated her; hasn’t left her a cent; +and she comes to me for a pass, so she can kiss him through the bars! +And I’ll bet she’s got a cake for him in that basket!” + +The mother laughed happily; she knew now she would get the pass. + +“Mothers,” explained Mr. Andrews, from the depth of his wisdom, “are +all like that; your mother, my mother. If you went to jail, your mother +would be just like that.” + +Mr. Thorndike bowed his head politely. He had never considered going +to jail, or whether, if he did, his mother would bring him cake in a +basket. Apparently there were many aspects and accidents of life not +included in his experience. + +Young Andrews sprang to his feet, and, with the force of a hose flushing +a gutter, swept his soiled visitors into the hall. + +“Come on,” he called to the Wisest Man, “the court is open.” + + +In the corridors were many people, and with his eyes on the broad +shoulders of the assistant district attorney, Thorndike pushed his way +through them. The people who blocked his progress were of the class +unknown to him. Their looks were anxious, furtive, miserable. They stood +in little groups, listening eagerly to a sharp-faced lawyer, or, in +sullen despair, eying each other. At a door a tipstaff laid his hand +roughly on the arm of Mr. Thorndike. + +“That’s all right, Joe,” called young Mr. Andrews, “he’s with ME.” They +entered the court and passed down an aisle to a railed enclosure +in which were high oak chairs. Again, in his effort to follow, Mr. +Thorndike was halted, but the first tipstaff came to his rescue. “All +right,” he signalled, “he’s with Mr. Andrews.” + +Mr. Andrews pointed to one of the oak chairs. “You sit there,” he +commanded, “it’s reserved for members of the bar, but it’s all right. +You’re with ME.” + +Distinctly annoyed, slightly bewildered, the banker sank between the +arms of a chair. He felt he had lost his individuality. Andrews had +become his sponsor. Because of Andrews he was tolerated. Because Andrews +had a pull he was permitted to sit as an equal among police-court +lawyers. No longer was he Arnold Thorndike. He was merely the man “with +Mr. Andrews.” + +Then even Andrews abandoned him. “The judge’ll be here in a minute, +now,” said the assistant district attorney, and went inside a railed +enclosure in front of the judge’s bench. There he greeted another +assistant district attorney whose years were those of even greater +indiscretion than the years of Mr. Andrews. Seated on the rail, with +their hands in their pockets and their backs turned to Mr. Thorndike, +they laughed and talked together. The subject of their discourse was one +Mike Donlin, as he appeared in vaudeville. + +To Mr. Thorndike it was evident that young Andrews had entirely +forgotten him. He arose, and touched his sleeve. With infinite sarcasm +Mr. Thorndike began: “My engagements are not pressing, but--” + +A court attendant beat with his palm upon the rail. + +“Sit down!” whispered Andrews. “The judge is coming.” + +Mr. Thorndike sat down. + +The court attendant droned loudly words Mr. Thorndike could not +distinguish. There was a rustle of silk, and from a door behind him +the judge stalked past. He was a young man, the type of the Tammany +politician. On his shrewd, alert, Irish-American features was an +expression of unnatural gloom. With a smile Mr. Thorndike observed that +it was as little suited to the countenance of the young judge as was +the robe to his shoulders. Mr. Thorndike was still smiling when young +Andrews leaned over the rail. + +“Stand up!” he hissed. Mr. Thorndike stood up. + +After the court attendant had uttered more unintelligible words, every +one sat down; and the financier again moved hurriedly to the rail. + +“I would like to speak to him now before he begins,” he whispered. “I +can’t wait.” + +Mr. Andrews stared in amazement. The banker had not believed the young +man could look so serious. + +“Speak to him, NOW!” exclaimed the district attorney. ‘You’ve got to +wait till your man comes up. If you speak to the judge, NOW--” The voice +of Andrews faded away in horror. + +Not knowing in what way he had offended, but convinced that it was +only by the grace of Andrews he had escaped a dungeon, Mr. Thorndike +retreated to his arm-chair. + + +The clock on the wall showed him that, already, he had given to young +Spear one hour and a quarter. The idea was preposterous. No one better +than himself knew what his time was really worth. In half an hour there +was a board meeting; later, he was to hold a post mortem on a railroad; +at every moment questions were being asked by telegraph, by cable, +questions that involved the credit of individuals, of firms, of even the +country. And the one man who could answer them was risking untold sums +only that he might say a good word for an idle apprentice. Inside the +railed enclosure a lawyer was reading a typewritten speech. He assured +his honor that he must have more time to prepare his case. It was one +of immense importance. The name of a most respectable business house was +involved, and a sum of no less than nine hundred dollars. Nine hundred +dollars! The contrast struck Mr. Thorndike’s sense of humor full in the +centre. Unknowingly, he laughed, and found himself as conspicuous as +though he had appeared suddenly in his night-clothes. The tipstaffs +beat upon the rail, the lawyer he had interrupted uttered an indignant +exclamation, Andrews came hurriedly toward him, and the young judge +slowly turned his head. + +“Those persons,” he said, “who cannot respect the dignity of this +court will leave it.” As he spoke, with his eyes fixed on those of Mr. +Thorndike, the latter saw that the young judge had suddenly recognized +him. But the fact of his identity did not cause the frown to relax or +the rebuke to halt unuttered. In even, icy tones the judge continued: +“And it is well they should remember that the law is no respecter of +persons and that the dignity of this court will be enforced, no matter +who the offender may happen to be.” + +Andrews slipped into the chair beside Mr. Thorndike, and grinned +sympathetically. + +“Sorry!” he whispered. “Should have warned you. We won’t be long now,” + he added encouragingly. “As soon as this fellow finishes his argument, +the judge’ll take up the sentences. Your man seems to have other +friends; Isaacs & Sons are here, and the type-writer firm who taught +him; but what YOU say will help most. It won’t be more than a couple of +hours now.” + +“A couple of hours!” Mr. Thorndike raged inwardly. A couple of hours +in this place where he had been publicly humiliated. He smiled, a +thin, shark-like smile. Those who made it their business to study his +expressions, on seeing it, would have fled. Young Andrews, not being +acquainted with the moods of the great man, added cheerfully: “By one +o’clock, anyway.” + +Mr. Thorndike began grimly to pull on his gloves. For all he cared now +young Spear could go hang. Andrews nudged his elbow. + +“See that old lady in the front row?” he whispered. “That’s Mrs. Spear. +What did I tell you; mothers are all alike. She’s not taken her eyes off +you since court opened. She knows you’re her one best bet.” + +Impatiently Mr. Thorndike raised his head. He saw a little, white-haired +woman who stared at him. In her eyes was the same look he had seen +in the eyes of men who, at times of panic, fled to him, beseeching, +entreating, forcing upon him what was left of the wreck of their +fortunes, if only he would save their honor. + +“And here come the prisoners,” Andrews whispered. “See Spear? Third man +from the last.” A long line, guarded in front and rear, shuffled into +the court-room, and, as ordered, ranged themselves against the wall. +Among them were old men and young boys, well dressed, clever-looking +rascals, collarless tramps, fierce-eyed aliens, smooth-shaven, +thin-lipped Broadwayards--and Spear. + +Spear, his head hanging, with lips white and cheeks ashen, and his eyes +heavy with shame. + +Mr. Thorndike had risen, and, in farewell, was holding out his hand to +Andrews. He turned, and across the court-room the eyes of the financier +and the stenographer met. At the sight of the great man, Spear flushed +crimson, and then his look of despair slowly disappeared; and into his +eyes there came incredulously hope and gratitude. He turned his head +suddenly to the wall. + +Mr. Thorndike stood irresolute, and then sank back into his chair. + +The first man in the line was already at the railing, and the questions +put to him by the judge were being repeated to him by the other +assistant district attorney and a court attendant. His muttered answers +were in turn repeated to the judge. + +“Says he’s married, naturalized citizen, Lutheran Church, die-cutter by +profession.” + +The probation officer, her hands filled with papers, bustled forward and +whispered. + +“Mrs. Austin says,” continued the district attorney, “she’s looked into +this case, and asks to have the man turned over to her. He has a wife +and three children; has supported them for five years.” + +“Is the wife in court?” the judge said. + +A thin, washed-out, pretty woman stood up, and clasped her hands in +front of her. + +“Has this man been a good husband to you, madam?” asked the young judge. + +The woman broke into vehement assurances. No man could have been a +better husband. Would she take him back? Indeed she would take him back. +She held out her hands as though she would physically drag her husband +from the pillory. + +The judge bowed toward the probation officer, and she beckoned the +prisoner to her. + +Other men followed, and in the fortune of each Mr. Thorndike found +himself, to his surprise, taking a personal interest. It was as good as +a play. It reminded him of the Sicilians he had seen in London in their +little sordid tragedies. Only these actors were appearing in their +proper persons in real dramas of a life he did not know, but which +appealed to something that had been long untouched, long in disuse. It +was an uncomfortable sensation that left him restless because, as he +appreciated, it needed expression, an outlet. He found this, partially, +in praising, through Andrews, the young judge who had publicly rebuked +him. Mr. Thorndike found him astute, sane; his queries intelligent, his +comments just. And this probation officer, she, too, was capable, was +she not? Smiling at his interest in what to him was an old story, the +younger man nodded. + +“I like her looks,” whispered the great man. “Like her clear eyes and +clean skin. She strikes me as able, full of energy, and yet womanly. +These men when they come under her charge,” he insisted, eagerly, “need +money to start again, don’t they?” He spoke anxiously. He believed he +had found the clew to his restlessness. It was a desire to help; to be +of use to these failures who had fallen and who were being lifted to +their feet. Andrews looked at him curiously. “Anything you give her,” he +answered, “would be well invested.” + +“If you will tell me her name and address?” whispered the banker. He was +much given to charity, but it had been perfunctory, it was extended on +the advice of his secretary. In helping here, he felt a genial glow +of personal pleasure. It was much more satisfactory than giving an Old +Master to his private chapel. + +In the rear of the court-room there was a scuffle that caused every +one to turn and look. A man, who had tried to force his way past the +tipstaffs, was being violently ejected, and, as he disappeared, he waved +a paper toward Mr. Thorndike. The banker recognized him as his chief +clerk. Andrews rose anxiously. “That man wanted to get to you. I’ll see +what it is. Maybe it’s important.” + +Mr. Thorndike pulled him back. + +“Maybe it is,” he said dryly. “But I can’t see him now, I’m busy.” + + +Slowly the long line of derelicts, of birds of prey, of sorry, weak +failures, passed before the seat of judgment. Mr. Thorndike had moved +into a chair nearer to the rail, and from time to time made a note upon +the back of an envelope. He had forgotten the time or had chosen to +disregard it. So great was his interest that he had forgotten the +particular derelict he had come to serve, until Spear stood almost at +his elbow. + +Thorndike turned eagerly to the judge, and saw that he was listening to +a rotund, gray little man with beady, bird-like eyes who, as he talked, +bowed and gesticulated. Behind him stood a younger man, a more modern +edition of the other. He also bowed and, behind gold eye-glasses, smiled +ingratiatingly. + +The judge nodded, and leaning forward, for a few moments fixed his eyes +upon the prisoner. + +“You are a very fortunate young man,” he said. He laid his hand upon a +pile of letters. “When you were your own worst enemy, your friends +came to help you. These letters speak for you; your employers, whom you +robbed, have pleaded with me in your favor. It is urged, in your behalf, +that at the time you committed the crime of which you are found guilty, +you were intoxicated. In the eyes of the law, that is no excuse. Some +men can drink and keep their senses. It appears you can not. When you +drink you are a menace to yourself--and, as is shown by this crime, +to the community. Therefore, you must not drink. In view of the good +character to which your friends have testified, and on the condition +that you do not touch liquor, I will not sentence you to jail, but will +place you in charge of the probation officer.” + +The judge leaned back in his chair and beckoned to Mr. Andrews. It was +finished. Spear was free, and from different parts of the courtroom +people were moving toward the door. Their numbers showed that the +friends of the young man had been many. Mr. Thorndike felt a certain +twinge of disappointment. Even though the result relieved and pleased +him, he wished, in bringing it about, he had had some part. + +He begrudged to Isaacs & Sons the credit of having given Spear +his liberty. His morning had been wasted. He had neglected his own +interests, and in no way assisted those of Spear. He was moving out of +the railed enclosure when Andrews called him by name. + +“His honor,” he said impressively, “wishes to speak to you.” + +The judge leaned over his desk and shook Mr. Thorndike by the hand. Then +he made a speech. The speech was about public-spirited citizens who, to +the neglect of their own interests, came to assist the ends of justice, +and fellow-creatures in misfortune. He purposely spoke in a loud voice, +and every one stopped to listen. + +“The law, Mr. Thorndike, is not vindictive,” he said. “It wishes only +to be just. Nor can it be swayed by wealth or political or social +influences. But when there is good in a man, I, personally, want to know +it, and when gentlemen like yourself, of your standing in this city, +come here to speak a good word for a man, we would stultify the purpose +of justice if we did not listen. I thank you for coming, and I wish more +of our citizens were as unselfish and public-spirited.” + +It was all quite absurd and most embarrassing, but inwardly Mr. +Thorndike glowed with pleasure. It was a long time since any one had +had the audacity to tell him he had done well. From the friends of Spear +there was a ripple of applause, which no tipstaff took it upon himself +to suppress, and to the accompaniment of this, Mr. Thorndike walked to +the corridor. He was pleased with himself and with his fellow-men. He +shook hands with Isaacs & Sons, and congratulated them upon their public +spirit, and the type-writer firm upon their public spirit. And then he +saw Spear standing apart regarding him doubtfully. + +Spear did not offer his hand, but Mr. Thorndike took it, and shook it, +and said: “I want to meet your mother.” + +And when Mrs. Spear tried to stop sobbing long enough to tell him how +happy she was, and how grateful, he instead told her what a fine son she +had, and that he remembered when Spear used to carry flowers to town for +her. And she remembered it, too, and thanked him for the flowers. And +he told Spear, when Isaacs & Sons went bankrupt, which at the rate they +were giving away their money to the Hebrew Hospital would be very soon, +Spear must come back to him. And Isaacs & Sons were delighted at the +great man’s pleasantry, and afterward repeated it many times, calling +upon each other to bear witness, and Spear felt as though some one had +given him a new backbone, and Andrews, who was guiding Thorndike out of +the building, was thinking to himself what a great confidence man had +been lost when Thorndike became a banker. + + +The chief clerk and two bank messengers were waiting by the automobile +with written calls for help from the office. They pounced upon the +banker and almost lifted him into the car. + +“There’s still time!” panted the chief clerk. + +“There is not!” answered Mr. Thorndike. His tone was rebellious, +defiant. It carried all the authority of a spoiled child of fortune. +“I’ve wasted most of this day,” he declared, “and I intend to waste the +rest of it. Andrews,” he called, “jump in, and I’ll give you a lunch at +Sherry’s.” + +The vigilant protector of the public dashed back into the building. + +“Wait till I get my hat!” he called. + +As the two truants rolled up the avenue the spring sunshine warmed them, +the sense of duties neglected added zest to their holiday, and young Mr. +Andrews laughed aloud. + +Mr. Thorndike raised his eyebrows inquiringly. “I was wondering,” said +Andrews, “how much it cost you to keep Spear out of jail?” + +“I don’t care,” said the great man guiltily; “it was worth it.” + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Wasted Day, by Richard Harding Davis + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WASTED DAY *** + +***** This file should be named 1820-0.txt or 1820-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/2/1820/ + +Produced by Don Lainson + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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