Mary Minds Her Business Part 15

"Think of that now," said he; "in Glasga'!" As he looked, the frost left his eye. "A grand lot of la.s.ses," he said and cleared his throat.

"If they can do it, we can do it, too--don't you think so?"

"Why not?" he asked. "For let me tell you this, Miss Mary. Those old countries are all grand countries--to somebody's way of thinking. But America is the grandest of them all, or they wouldn't keep coming here as fast as ships can bring them! What they can do, yes, we can do--and add something for good measure, if need be!"

"Well, that's it," said Mary, eagerly. "If we go into the war, we shall have to do the same as they are doing in Europe--let women do the factory work. And if it comes to that, I want Spencer & Son to be ready--to be the first to do it--to show the others the way!"

Mac nodded. "A bit of your grandfather, that," he thought with approval.

"So what I want you to do," she concluded, "is to make me up a list of machines that women can be taught to handle the easiest, and let me have it as soon as you can."

"I'll do that," he grimly nodded. "There's far too many vacant now."

"And remember, please, you are not to say anything. Because, you know, people would only laugh at the idea of a woman being able to do a man's work."

"I'm mute," he nodded again, and started for the door, his mouth b.u.t.toned very tightly indeed. But even while his hand was stretched out to reach the k.n.o.b, he paused and then returned to the desk.

"Miss Mary," he said, "I'm an old man, and you're a young girl. I know nothing, mind you, but sometimes there are funny things going on in the world. And a man's not a fool. What I'm going to tell you now, I want you to remember it, but forget who told it to you. Trust n.o.body. Be careful.

I can say no more."

"He means Uncle Stanley," thought Mary, uneasily, and a shadow fell upon the day. She was still troubled when another disturbing incident arose.

"I'll leave these papers in the desk here," she thought, taking her keys from her handbag. She unlocked the top drawer and was about to place the papers on top of those which already lay there, when suddenly she paused and her eyes opened wide.

On the top letter in her drawer--a grey tinted sheet--was a scattered mound of cigarette ash.

"Somebody's been here--snooping," she thought. "Somebody with a key to the desk. He must have had a cigarette in his hand when he shut the drawer, and the ashes jarred off without being noticed--"

Irresistibly her thoughts turned to Burdon Woodward, with his gold cigarette case and match box.

"It was he who gave me the keys," she thought.

She sighed. A sense of walking among pitfalls took possession of her. As you have probably often noticed, suspicion feeds upon suspicion, and as Mary walked through the outer office she felt that more than one pair of eyes were avoiding her. The old cashier kept his head buried in his ledger and nearly all the men were busy with their papers and books.

"Perhaps it's because I'm a woman," she thought. Ma'm Maynard's words arose with a new significance, "I tell you, Miss Mary, it has halways been so, and it halways will. Everything that lives has its own natural enemy--and a woman's natural enemy: eet is man!"

But Mary could still smile at that.

"Take Mr. MacPherson," she thought; "how is he my natural enemy? Or Judge Cutler? Or Archey Forbes? Or Wally Cabot?" She felt more normal then, but when these reflections had died away, she still occasionally felt her thoughts reverting to Mac's warning, the cigarette ash, the averted glances in the office.

The nest morning, though, she thought she had found the answer to the latter puzzle. She had hardly finished breakfast when Judge Cutler was announced, his hawk's eyes frowning and never a trace of his smile.

"Did you get your copy of the annual report?" he asked.

"Not yet," said Mary, somehow guessing what he meant. "Why?"

"I got mine in the mail this morning." He drew it from his pocket and his frown grew deeper. "Let's go in the den," he said; "we've got to talk this out."

It was the annual report of Spencer & Son's business and briefly stated, it showed an alarming loss for the preceding twelve months.

"Ah-ha!" thought Mary, "that's the reason they didn't look up yesterday.

They had seen this, and they felt ashamed."

"As nearly as I can make it out," said the judge, "there's too many improvements going on, and not enough business. We must do something to stop these big expenses, and find a way to get more bearings sold--"

He checked himself then and looked at Mary, much as Mac had looked the previous day, just before issuing his warning.

"Perhaps he's thinking of Uncle Stanley, too," thought Mary.

"Another bad feature is this," continued the judge, "the bank is getting too strong a hold on the company. We must stop that before it gets any worse."

"Why?" asked Mary, looking very innocent.

"Because it isn't good business."

"But Uncle Stanley is president of the bank. You don't think he'd do anything to hurt Spencer & Son; do you?"

The judge tapped his foot on the floor for a time, and then made a noise like a groan--as though he had teeth in his mind and one of them was being pulled.

"Many a time," he said, "I have tried to talk you out of your suspicions.

But--if it was any other man than Stanley Woodward, I would say today that he was doing his best to--to--"

"To 'do' me?" suggested Mary, more innocent than ever.

"Yes, my dear--to do you! And another year's work like this wouldn't be far from having that result."

Curiously enough it was Mary's great idea that comforted her. Instead of feeling worried or apprehensive, she felt eager for action, her eyes shining at the thoughts which came to her.

"All right," she said, "we'll have a meeting in a day or two. I'll wait till I get my copy of the report."

Wally came that afternoon, and Mary danced with him--that is to say she danced with him until a freckle-faced apprentice came up from the factory with an envelope addressed in MacPherson's crabbed hand. Mary took one peep inside and danced no more.

"If the women can pick it up as quick as the men," she read, "I have counted 1653 places in this factory where they could be working in a few weeks time--that is, if the places were vacant. List enclosed.

Respectfully. James O. MacPherson."

It was a long list beginning "346 automatics, 407 grinders--"

Mary studied it carefully, and then after telephoning to the factory, she called up Judge Cutler.

"I wish you would come down to the office in about half an hour," she said, ".... Directors' meeting. All right. Thank you."

"What was it dad used to call me sometimes--his 'Little Hustler'?" she thought. "If he could see, I'll bet that's what he would call me now."

As she pa.s.sed through the hall she looked in the drawing room to tell Helen where she was going. Helen was sitting on a chaise lounge and Wally was bending over her, as though trying to get something out of her eye with the corner of a handkerchief.

"I don't see anything," Mary heard him saying.

"There must be something. It hurts dreadfully," said Helen.