The Buckaroo of Blue Wells
9781465676788
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
James Eaton Legg hooked his heels over the rounds of his high stool, stretched wearily and looked out through the none-too-clean windows to where a heavy fog almost obscured the traffic. Heavy trucks lumbered past, grinding harshly over the cobbles. Somewhere a street-car motorman did a trap-drum effect on his gong; a ferry boat whistled boomingly. And there was the incessant roar of the every-day noises of the commercial district. James Eaton Legg was not a prepossessing person. He was less than thirty years of age, slightly beneath medium height, slender. His face was thin, rather boyish, his mild blue eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses. His mouth was wide, and when he yawned wearily he showed a good set of teeth. For several years James had been a bookkeeper with Mellon & Co., Wholesale Grocers, San Francisco—and he was still acting in the same capacity. His slightly stooped shoulders attested to the fact that James had bent diligently over his work. Whether fortunately, or unfortunately, James was an orphan. His mother had died while he was still very young, and when James had just finished high school, his father had gone the way of all flesh. James was cognizant of the fact that somewhere in the world he had some relatives, but that fact caused him little concern. He remembered that his mother had a sister, who was well endowed with worldly goods, and he also remembered that his father had said that his Aunt Martha would probably die with all her wealth intact. James turned from his contemplation of the foggy street, and his blue eyes studied the occupants of the big office. There was Henry Marsh, humped like an old buzzard, his long nose close to the ledger page, as he had been the first time James had seen him. He had grown old with Mellon & Co.—so old that he worried about his job. There were younger men, working adding machines, delving in accounts; preparing themselves for a life of drudgery. Over in the cashier’s cage was David Conley, frozenfaced, pathetic; as old as Mellon & Co. James shuddered slightly. If he lived to be seventy, and worked faithfully, he might occupy that cage. James was being paid the munificent sum of seventy dollars a month. He happened to know that David Conley drew one hundred and fifty dollars in his monthly envelope. James shook his head and shifted his gaze back to the window. He did not feel like working. It all seemed so useless; this idea of putting down figures and adding them up; eating, sleeping, and coming back to put down more figures. He turned from contemplation of the wet street, and looked at Blair Mellon, senior member of the firm, who had come in from his private office. He was nearing seventy, thin, stooped, irascible. Nothing seemed to please him. His beady eyes shifted from one employee to another, as he walked slowly. He had made a success of business, but a wreck of himself. The boys of the firm called him “Caucus,” because of the fact that once a week he would hold a caucus in the office, at which time he would impress upon them the fact that the firm was everything, and that nothing else mattered.
