XXV

Willis found himself telling that story about the Chinese Ambassador again in—of all places—the spacious glassed-in terrace of the Hotel Carolina in Pinehurst in May of 1948. He had just come in from a very happy afternoon of golf, and he was enjoying some good talk before going up to the suite to change before the cocktail hour and the banquet.

They were serving tea, as was the custom at the Carolina, but not many were having any. Willis had been sitting with Jerry Bascomb, who had been his foursome partner and whom Willis had asked down with him for the Pinehurst convention because he thought that Jerry needed a little fun away from Helen and the children, and also because it was a great help to have Jerry at his elbow in case something came up of a technical or engineering nature. If anybody in the Associates deserved a good time at company expense, it was Jerry, and Willis made a mental note to send Jerry to some convention every year in the future. He was just telling Jerry that Pinehurst was an ideal place for business meetings—what with the mild dry air and the four golf courses—when Alec Bingkrampf came up and spoke to him. He was of course the Bingkrampf who was president of Swanee Power, and this year he was chairman in general charge of all arrangements for the Production Liners Convocation at Pinehurst. It was one of Alec Bingkrampf’s duties to mingle with everyone, and Willis had meant to help by coming up himself and shaking hands at an early opportunity and asking Bing if he remembered the good times they had had in Washington together during the war. There was no necessity for this, however, because Alec Bingkrampf came right over himself.

“Well, well, Willis,” Bing said. “I’ve been looking for you ever since I saw your name down on the list.”

“Well, well, Bing,” Willis said. “It’s been a long time no see, hasn’t it? By the way, I don’t know whether you remember my associate, Jerry Bascomb. He was down at Swanee on a little problem a year or two ago.”

Evidently Bing did not remember Jerry Bascomb, but then, as Willis was beginning to learn himself, no one could ever remember everything.

“So you were down at Swanee, were you, Mr. Bascomb?” Bing said. “I certainly hope the bunch treated you all right. Well, well, Willis. It’s quite a while since we fought the war down in Washington, isn’t it? Say, Bascomb, did the chief ever tell you what went on in Washington?”

Jerry was not such a bad mixer, considering he was a graduate of Tech.

“Not much,” Jerry said. “I gathered most of it was top secret down in Washington.”

It was not a bad line and both Willis and Alec Bingkrampf indulged in a moment of reminiscent laughter.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Bing said. “We really did have some high old top-secret times down there—and don’t you give me that vague look, Willis.”

There was nothing like a little good-natured kidding at the end of a long day.

“Well, now, Bing,” Willis said, “I wasn’t like you. I was generally pretty tired at night.”

“You old rascal,” Bing said, and he slapped Willis’s back affectionately. “Say, I wonder what’s happened to the old crowd. Do you remember—who was it—the fellow who kept playing the guitar? I’ve got it—Red Flyrood.”

“Oh, yes,” Willis said. “He’s still down there on the National Labor Relations Board.”

“And what about General Pottle?” Alec Bingkrampf asked. “Do you remember the bourbon he used to keep in his desk? I wonder where old Gus is now.”

“We exchange Christmas cards each year,” Willis said. “And I’ll tell you whom I do correspond with sometimes, and that’s old Charlie Spoonholm.”

“By God, the admiral,” Alec Bingkrampf said. “I’m glad you brought him up. Now there was someone who could really put away the bourbon. I wonder what ever happened to old Charlie when he retired.”

“I can answer that one for you, Bing,” Willis said. “He’s down in Florida and he owns a small alligator farm.”

“Well, well,” Bing said. He was showing signs of restlessness, and it was kind of him to have stayed chatting so long. “Think of old Charlie wrestling with an alligator. Well, I’ve got to be thinking up some remarks for my speech tonight. Well, so long fellows, and bellyache to me if there’s anything wrong with your room or anything.” Then just as he was leaving he stopped, and his voice became mellow and vibrant. “Well, well, look who’s here. If it isn’t the old horse thief himself! If it isn’t old P.L.!”

Alec Bingkrampf was referring, of course, to P. L. Nagel, and Willis had just been wondering what had happened to P.L. and whether P.L. remembered that they had made a cocktail date.

“Is everything all right, P.L.?” Alec Bingkrampf asked. “Did you get the suite you wanted?”

“Yes, thanks, young fellow,” P.L. said. “I hope to welcome you to the suite and return your hospitality some time with a small libation.”

“That will be swell, P.L.,” Alec Bingkrampf said, “and you got your locker at the club and everything?”

“Never mind my locker,” P.L. said. “I don’t think I’ll enter in the Tombstone tomorrow. I’m just going to sit and bend my elbow and let the young fellows do the work.”

That was the moment when Willis was reminded of the story of the Chinese Ambassador in Washington.

“You know that reminds me of a story,” Willis said. “Stop me if you’ve heard it. It’s the one about the Chinese Ambassador in Washington.”

It was always hard to tell whether someone was being polite or whether he really had not heard the story.

“Well, it’s just a quickie,” Willis said, “but it might help Bing here at the banquet. It seems that this Chinese Ambassador was at a party in Washington, and when his hostess asked him if he would not like to dance, he said, Why should I when I can pay someone else to do it for me? That’s like P.L., isn’t it? Letting young fellows win the Tombstone for him.”

It was gratifying that the story made a real hit, because P.L. and Alec Bingkrampf were by way of being connoisseurs of stories. Their laughter, Willis was sure, was genuine, and as he listened to it Willis thought that telling a story was an art in itself. Once he had been too quick and nervous with the Chinese Ambassador story, but now he had the timing right. Then he remembered the first time he had heard it. Roger Harcourt had told it to him eight years ago, before the stockholders’ luncheon at the Harcourt place. It did not seem possible that it was eight years ago, but it was.

“Well,” Willis said, “I suppose we’ve all got to prepare to foregather for cocktails.”

“As long as we foregather,” P.L. said, “let’s go easy on the preparing. Will you come to the suite, Willis?”

“Come on over to my place, P.L.,” Willis said, “and try some of my stuff. It’s all pure, because it comes from the Alcoholic Beverage Control store.”

Eight years ago, when Willis had first heard the ambassador story, he might have been hesitant about asking someone of P. L. Nagel’s stature around to the room to have a drink, but things were different now. Willis knew that people like P. L. Nagel liked to be treated by younger men in a spirit of equality. After all, Willis was forty-one, although he didn’t look it. At least Sylvia, and some of the boys at the office too, said he didn’t look it. Even though there was a touch of gray in his hair, Sylvia had pointed out that people who started out blond were apt to turn gray earlier. This indication of age, at any rate, did not look badly on the president of Harcourt Associates. Frankly, Willis was getting a little tired of youth.

“All right,” P.L. said, “but don’t ask in a crowd.”

It was a little sad to hear him, Willis thought, because once there was nothing P.L. had liked as much as a crowd. It never occurred to Willis for a moment, that afternoon at the Carolina, that P.L. could want a quiet conversation with him. He never realized until later that P.L. might very well have come to the Production Liners Convocation at Pinehurst exclusively for that purpose.

They weren’t building monumental hotels like the old Carolina any more, and Willis was sorry. The enormous hallway stretching the length of the building afforded perpetual interest in leisure moments. Walking over the springy carpet of that corridor was like drifting down a Venetian canal—a fanciful simile, because Willis had not had time to get abroad as yet. On either side of the corridor was a shifting series of attractions. Shops full of sporting clothes for men and varicolored gowns for women were blossoming out like the late Carolina spring, and there were all sorts of unexpected consumer gadgets, now that the war was over. Then there were gift shops with novel souvenirs suitable for carrying home to wives, children, and sweethearts, and besides these attractions there were lounging alcoves and card and cocktail rooms, not to mention the ballroom. This vast caravansary, beautifully run despite the constant turnover of guests, reminded him of Chieftain Manor because, though somewhat smaller, The Old Chief had been a part of American hotel tradition, as practiced at the turn of the century—and what a tradition it had been, exemplifying the spaciousness and breadth of American belief, in the first flush of America’s industrial youth. It spoke of plenty and of a boundless opportunity inconceivable today, when one was hemmed in by socialistic restrictions. There would never again be a time similar to the era when the Carolina was brand new, but the Carolina was still far from being a mausoleum. Thousands of people who loved it were making it right now the background of a new America.

There was no hotel, in Willis’s opinion, as suitable for housing a large-scale and active business convention. There was room to turn around at the Carolina and space to get away from the crowd if you wanted to discuss facts and figures. Then of course there was the country club and those great Pinehurst golf courses that siphoned off junior executives and their wives and left lots of opportunity for quiet, orderly discussion, if you wanted round-table or committee talks. The Carolina could handle a big crowd comfortably, and the Production Liners Convocation needed a lot of space.

It had started as a casual group of Midwest industrialists with a common interest in promoting industrial efficiency. Once it had been an informal discussion group with a humorous angle which it had never quite lost, as was illustrated by the somewhat irreligious name “Convocation,” but then this was a word that distinguished the Production Liners from the ordinary convention. Now few people on the list could afford to miss the annual meeting, which the press itself rated as important as that of the National Association of Manufacturers. Now on the afternoon of the opening day tardy Production Liners were still streaming in with gigantic leather golf bags and other suitable pieces of luggage. Tables were still set up near the desk with a large banner emblazoned, “Welcome, Production Liners,” and smaller signs saying, “Get Your Badges Here.” As Willis saw the sign, he reached guiltily into the pocket of his windbreaker, pulled out his gold-framed badge and pinned it on his chest. “Willis Wayde,” it read, “Harcourt Associates, Pres.”

“It’s funny,” he said to Jerry Bascomb, “how I keep forgetting to put on this thing.”

“Oh hell,” Jerry said, “why don’t you forget it? Everybody here knows you anyway.”

All Jerry’s reactions made Willis very glad that he had brought him along to the Convocation. It showed that you failed to notice people sometimes in the daily routine of a plant or office. Jerry had a fine appearance and a very easy, congenial manner, not to mention brains and ability. Given the proper driving force, he might very well be high-executive material.

“I hope you enjoy being here as much as I enjoy having you, Jerry,” Willis said.

“Why, thanks a lot, Chief,” Jerry answered. “I’m having a swell time. The impact of all this is terrific.”

Although Willis knew the assistant manager of the Carolina personally, having been careful to keep up the contact he had made during his first stop there in 1945, the bedroom and sitting room that he and Jerry shared were smaller than he preferred, but then you couldn’t expect everything at a Production Liners Convocation, and it was all a whale of a lot better than what he had been able to secure for Will Freeman, Harcourt’s assistant sales manager, and his cute little wife, and for Mr. and Mrs. Fred Seagurt from the Rahway plant. Still, the Freemans and the Seagurts, though promising, were only kids who deserved the outing.

“Personally, I showered at the country club, Jerry,” Willis said, “so the bathroom is yours.”

It only took a short time to change into a fresh linen suit and white buckskin shoes, but still time was limited, because Willis wanted to have things right when P. L. Nagel got there, and suddenly Willis was worried about how Jerry would fit in. Willis was still considering the matter when he picked up the telephone.

“Head bellman, please,” he said. “Jerry, when you get out of that tub, would you mind getting the liquor and setting it out here on the writing table?—all the bottles. P.L. likes to see lots of bottles.”

“Hello, Mr. Wayde, sir,” the bell captain said.

It was an amazing achievement, when you stopped to think of it, that the switchboard operator should have known his name and passed it on to the bell captain. It was something new in service.

“Hello there, Archie,” Willis said. He always made a point of knowing bell captains. “Could you rush up some ice to my room and about four Martini and four old-fashioned and four highball glasses, and about six bottles of soda?”

“Would you like some crackers and cheese and a few appetizers with it, Mr. Wayde?” Archie asked.

“As long as you can get it all up in ten minutes,” Willis said, “and I won’t forget your cooperation, Archie.”

It was impossible not to have a sense of well-being on that waning sunny day of a Southern spring. Outside the windows of the sitting room were the fine glistening leaves of a large magnolia and from its branches came the liquid notes of a mockingbird. The room looked homelike, with the bottles and ice and glasses and a few random copies of periodicals including his company house organ, Harcourters Only. The Wayde family photographs stood upon a long console table. The bottles and ice and glasses probably should have been put there, but the photographs in their leather frames would have looked crowded elsewhere. One was of Willis’s mother, and then of equal size was a fine study of Sylvia seated in the library reading. Sylvia had said facetiously that it represented the first chance offered her to read in weeks. Then, in smaller frames, appeared the children. Al was in his Scout outfit, indicating that Willis believed strongly that the family should be an integrated part of the community. Paul, in the ridiculous long trousers that little boys now wore, was playing with their new retriever, whom Paul had named Hugo. Louise was simply standing out on the lawn with Miss Farquahr, and Willis was glad to have Miss Farquahr included, because she was getting to be quite an old retainer now. Finally there was an enlarged snapshot of Waydeholm as seen from the garden and the swimming pool. Combined, those pictures made a good sound gallery.

“Say, Jerry,” Willis said, “I particularly want you to observe P. L. Nagel. Although a competitor, Jerry, I really have a warm spot in my heart for him and a deep admiration. He’s a fine type executive, who keeps a youthful outlook. He gives the air of being a playboy, but don’t let that deceive you.”

“I hear Simcoe is going into foam rubber in a pretty big way,” Jerry said.

“Yes,” Willis said, but he did not want to be talking about foam rubber when P.L. came in, so he changed the subject.

“Jerry,” he said, “I was watching you this afternoon, particularly on the twelfth and fourteenth. You’re developing the makings of a good sound game.”

“I work at it,” Jerry said. “I admit golf’s a fascinating game, just from the point of view of precision.”

Willis smiled. There was no doubt that Jerry Bascomb was executive material.

“Golf is something you’ve got to cultivate pretty prayerfully,” Willis said. “I used to be a duffer, and I’m not proud at all of my ninety-one today, but that trap on the tenth set me back three strokes. I’ve got to remember to look around the golf shop tomorrow for another wedge.”

He looked at his wrist watch. P.L. was a little overdue.

“Basically,” Willis said, “a golf game is like a man’s character, or like integrity or loyalty. It mellows with experience. Come to think of it, the first time I saw that golf was a significant game was during my honeymoon. Sylvia and I spent it at a place called Chieftain Manor in the Adirondacks. It happened—it’s quite a coincidence—that I played several times there with old P. L. Nagel, who was vacationing there with Mrs. Nagel when we were honeymooning. P.L. studies every shot. He never lets anything get by, and that’s just the way he is at Simcoe.”

He had gone on about golf deliberately, as a sort of test, and Jerry had listened without allowing his attention to waver for a moment.

“It’s interesting,” Jerry said, “that you speak of golf in terms of philosophy, while I think in terms of ballistics. It’s fascinating that the power of a swing, properly exerted, can send a ball so far and so straight.”

Those remarks of Jerry’s showed that he could talk interestingly on a general subject, and Willis hated to break up the conversation, but he was thinking about the two young couples, the Freemans and the Seagurts.

“The whole secret of golf,” Willis said, because he did not want to change the subject too abruptly, “is hitting from the inside out. Get a nice pivot, and if you make a good clean finish you don’t have to worry. By the way, Jerry, after you’ve had a little visit with P.L., maybe you’d better get in touch with the kids down the hall. I’ve just remembered that P. T. Green is throwing a little shindig in the Pine Room—you know, president of the Green Gauge and Roller Company.”

“It sounds like a kind of plum, doesn’t it? I mean Green Gauge,” Jerry said, and Willis laughed perfunctorily.

“It sounds good to us right now, Jerry,” he said, “because they’ve just put in an inquiry for Planeroid. I don’t know whether I can induce P.L. to go down or not, but I’d like you and the Freemans and the Seagurts to show up in the Pine Room, and you might indicate indirectly to P.T. that you’re our Planeroid specialist. You don’t mind, do you, Jerry?”

“Mind?” Jerry said. “Why should I mind?” And then there was a banging on the door, and Willis heard P. L. Nagel’s voice.

“Open up there,” P.L. was calling. “It’s the house detective.”

When he was playing, P.L. always was a lot of fun, although Willis sometimes suspected that those playful moods were a sort of iron curtain that concealed many of P. L. Nagel’s thoughts and motives. The truth was P.L. was not really an entertainer like the regular pranksters and jokesters who would appear at the banquet. No matter how he tried, he was not a natural-born comedian, because comedians did not have steel-trap minds. And yet out of courtesy to an older man, Willis had to act up to the horseplay.

“Don’t put the bracelets on us yet, Chief,” Willis said. “And how about a drink?”

If it was a flat answer, it had the advantage of stopping P.L. from being a house detective. In spite of his corpulence, which had been catching up with him in the last few years, P.L. looked sharp in a beautifully pressed Palm Beach suit and a canary-yellow necktie, and his growing bald spot gave the illusion of an island surrounded by white breakers.

“Just a tetch of bourbon,” P.L. said. “Say, I’ve just been down at Alec Bingkrampf’s with a crowd of wild men. It’s my considered prognostication after severial drinks, that they’re going to tear this caravansary apart tonight.”

Willis laughed in the way one should when playboys and fun were mentioned.

“I don’t think it’s such a bad idea, seriously speaking,” Willis said, “to have some informality at an opening banquet. Jerry, as long as you’re being barkeep, I’ll have a little bourbon too.”

But P. L. Nagel’s mind had not yet left the Bingkrampf get-together.

“Have you seen the song sheet those boys have got printed?” P.L. asked. “They’ve got a real theme song for this convocation. Just hold onto your chairs and listen.

Nothing could be finer

For an old Production Liner

Than the Hotel Carolina

In the morning.”

It seemed to Willis that this was a very obvious effort, but P.L. was watching him critically, so Willis had to be careful of his reaction.

“Well,” he said, “I guess it has the makings of a theme song, but I’m not much of a judge of music.”

“Say, Bascomb,” P.L. said, “how about sweetening up this drink a little? Say, Willis, someday I’m going to snake Jerry away from you. He’s too smart to be in a one-horse show like Harcourt Associates.”

Willis rose, laughing heartily, and slapped Jerry affectionately on the shoulder.

“Oh no you don’t, P.L.,” he said, “because Jerry’s smart enough to know he’s all fixed right where he is.”

“I wish you young fellows wouldn’t get steamed up at a little clean fun,” P.L. said. “When did I ever hire a man from out of a friend’s office? Just when did I?”

Willis burst into another hearty shout of laughter.

“You mean just when didn’t you, don’t you, P.L.?” he said.

After all, part of the game was being able to joke with competitors in a friendly way. Wllis had P.L. there, and P.L. beamed at Willis and Jerry Bascomb.

“You ought not to tempt me by having Jerry here,” P.L. said.

“I guess the boss would feel better if I pulled out of here then,” Jerry said, “and seriously, some of our crowd has got to show up at Mr. Green’s. It’s been a real pleasure seeing you, Mr. Nagel. Table Fifty-two, isn’t it, Chief?”

It was Table 52, and everything about Jerry confirmed Willis’s opinion that Jerry was topflight material. He had handled P.L. very nicely, but even so Willis had a twinge of uneasiness, because you could not always tell what anyone, even as loyal as Jerry Bascomb, might do when brought into contact with someone like P.L. This was one of the dangers in conventions that sometimes offset advantages, and it seemed to Willis that P.L. looked at him in a questioning way when Jerry closed the door.

“Seriously and all kidding aside,” P.L. said, and he rattled the ice in his glass, “it’s nice to snatch a moment of peace and quiet up here. Listen to that God-damn bird singing in that God-damn tree out there. He sounds like a professional bird-caller, doesn’t he? Seriously, I’m mighty glad to have a little get-together alone with you, because you’ve kind of been on my mind lately, Willis.”

Willis looked carefully at his old-fashioned glass. He was old enough by now to conceal surprise and old enough also not to indulge in a series of guesses as to what was coming.

“I hope I’ve been on your mind in a nice way, P.L.,” Willis said.

When you were dealing with someone of P.L.’s caliber, you were playing in the big league. You needed to be careful if you wanted to keep your shirt. Willis saw P.L. watching him, and he gazed back innocently, but then before P.L. could make a further move the telephone on the console table rang.

“Sit right where you are, P.L.,” he said, “and sweeten up your drink. I was so absorbed in what we were saying that I completely forgot I put a call in for home for six-thirty—just to say hello to Sylvia and the kids.”

The telephone rang impatiently before Willis could reach it. Then he sat down with the instrument propped expertly against his ear and smiled at P.L. hospitably.

“Speaking,” he said. “… Hello, sweetness … How’s everything going in the park? … Oh, I couldn’t be better, honey. The weather’s wonderful and this is going to be a real party. I do wish you were here to enjoy it with me, but Jerry Bascomb’s mighty good company.… Yes, I’ve been out already, but I only shot a ninety-one today. I took three strokes getting out of a trap on the tenth on Course Two.… Oh, no no, I’m not at a cocktail party or anything. I’m just lazing around up here in the suite, and who do you think is up here with me? Old P. L. Nagel.”

“Oh, my God,” Sylvia said, “not that terrible old bore.”

Willis had been careful to hold the receiver tight to his ear because you never could be sure what Sylvia might say, but still he was glad to remember that someone had said that old P.L.’s hearing was not what it used to be.

“Now, sweetness,” Willis said, “I certainly will give him your love. I wouldn’t forget it for the world.”

“Give him my love but don’t have him or that wife of his here if you can help it, darling,” Sylvia said.

“Right,” Willis said, “right, sweetness, and now if the kiddies are there, how about my saying a few words to them?”

“First about the Packard,” Sylvia said. “You never told me you were going to turn it in. Really, Willis, it’s just as good as it ever was.”

Willis smiled at P. L. Nagel. Conceivably, it might be valuable if P.L. overheard this part of the conversation.

“Now, sweetness, let’s get this straight,” Willis said. “The Packard is obsolescent, and I’ve had my name in for a Cadillac for months, sweetness.”

“But, Willis,” Sylvia said, “we don’t really need a Cadillac.”

“It isn’t a question of needing a Cadillac,” Willis said. “The point is we can readily afford a Cadillac. Just to reassure yourself, you might look up Harcourt Associates in the New York Times.” Willis laughed and winked mischievously at P.L. “Just see what a share is quoted at now, and remember what I paid for it. In fact I’m willing to get two Cadillacs, sweetness.”

“Oh, Willis,” Sylvia said. “Let’s not have people think we’re Miami gamblers.”

As Sylvia spoke, Willis released the telephone from his ear so that Sylvia’s rather high voice could carry across the room.

“All right, honey,” he said, “we’ll leave it at one for the present, and you can keep the Packard and turn in the Ford if you want to. Well, if that’s all—oh, just a second. I hope you called up Boston in my behalf and that the news is still reassuring.”

“He’s had a very good day,” Sylvia said, “and he sent you a special message not to break things off at Pinehurst, and now Al’s waiting for you. He’s crazy to speak to you about something.”

Willis put his hand over the transmitting end of the telephone.

“That’s about Bryson Harcourt, P.L.,” he said. “There’s been no publicity but we’ve had some bad news in that direction—a slight stroke in the Boston office ten days ago—very slight, thank goodness, but his left side is still affected. It’s upsetting because he’s a very splendid person.”

“That’s very tough,” P.L. said. “I didn’t know.”

He spoke as one who recognizes we must all meet an inevitable ending but also like a soldier who sees his comrade fall in the ranks. They could not go on with the conversation, because Willis could hear Al’s voice, still the falsetto of childhood, calling to him from hundreds of miles away.

“Hey, Dad,” Al was calling.

“Hello, son,” Willis answered. “How’s every little thing with you, Al?”

“Dad,” Al said, “we’re going out for a two-day hike beginning Friday.”

“For a two-day hike,” Willis repeated after him. “Well, well. Where are you going to sleep, Al?”

“In the woods in pup tents,” Al answered. “Troop A and Troop B.”

Willis was about to ask what woods, until he remembered that a large area in New Jersey had been left to the Scouts for just such purposes, but he still could not understand this desire for woods and woodcrafts when there were no frontier days any longer.

“That sounds wonderful, Al,” he said. “Don’t chop your finger off or anything and don’t run if you see a bear.”

“Say, Dad,” Al said. “When are you coming back?”

“Why, Al,” Willis answered, “I’ll see you Monday night, and I want to hear all about that hike.”

“Okay, Dad,” Al said, and his voice sounded fainter.

It was something like a spiritual seance, speaking to one’s children hundreds of miles away, and now Paul’s voice was speaking through the unsubstantial distance.

“Well, well,” Willis said. “How’s Hugo, Paul?”

“Hugo’s okay,” Paul answered. “Say, Dad, will you bring me a present when you come back?”

“Yes,” Willis said. “I’ll see what I can do, Paul.”

“Okay,” Paul said. “I’ve got to be going now.”

“Daddy.” It was Louise speaking, and her voice was fainter still, giving Willis the impression that Sylvia and all the children were drifting away into space. “Daddy, I’m on the second spelling book now.”

“The second spelling book,” Willis said. “Well, my little honey bunch.”

“Well, that’s all, Daddy,” Louise said.

“Good-by, honey bunch,” Willis said. “Give Mommy a big kiss for me. Good-by, honey bunch.”

Willis smiled at P.L. as he put down the telephone. The Carolina Hotel suite was more like home and P. L. Nagel like a house guest because of those brief domestic speeches.

“I wish Myrtle and I had ever had kids,” P.L. said, “but Myrtle was always against babies. Those kids of yours must be getting to be quite a handful now.”

Willis laughed the way a family man should when his children came up for discussion.

“You’ve got to watch yourself at the Wayde house,” Willis said, “so as not to trip over roller skates and doll carriages, but I’m willing to settle for the lot of them, frankly, and besides, we have Miss Farquahr to look after them. Miss Farquahr’s a real wonder. She showed up when Paul was born. We couldn’t do without Farky now—that’s what the kids call her, Farky.”

“No,” P.L. said, “there’s nothing like kids to make a home, and it’s sort of tragic that Myrtle thinks so too, now it’s too late. There we are in Lake Forest in a house just made for kids and grandchildren and everything, and no kids. Pour me out another tetch, will you? On the rocks. I wish you lived next door, boy, so I could see your kids running around our lawn. Those are their pictures over there, aren’t they?”

“That’s right,” Willis said. “There they all are, to keep Daddy on the straight and narrow.”

“It’s quite a display, isn’t it?” P.L. said. “I’d like to take a look, if it isn’t too impertinent, son.”

P.L. pushed himself up and put on a pair of massive horn-rimmed spectacles of the type used by Hollywood producers.

“I always feel better about anyone,” P.L. said, “when I see him traveling with a picture of his mother, and your mother’s a lovely little lady, Willis. Old Alf introduced her to me once while he was working for Harrod Cash. Where are your parents now, Willis?”

“They’re pretty much retired now,” Willis said. “They’re living in a very attractive ranch-type house in a development near San Bernardino—or San Budoo, as they call it in California.”

“That’s a lovely part of the world,” P.L. said. “Do you know old Ralph Schultz in Hocking Aircraft?”

“I surely do know old Ralph,” Willis said. “I look upon him as one of my sweetest West Coast contacts. The last time I was out there he was kind enough to lend me a car and a driver to take me out to San Budoo.”

“It is, I repeat, a lovely part of the world,” P.L. said. “It’s too bad you’re not living nearer to it, Willis. As I always say to Myrtle, a man can have a lot of wives, and a great many do—” P.L. chuckled but sobered up immediately—“but, boy, you only have one mother.”

“That’s right, P.L.,” Willis said. “I’ve never heard it said in quite that way.” But P.L. had turned to continue his inspection of the photographs.

“That’s a sweet shot of Sylvia,” he said. “Remember back at The Old Chief? Been fond of Sylvia ever since.”

“Sylvia will love to hear that, P.L.,” Willis said, “because frankly she feels just that way about you.”

“And look at those kids,” P.L. said. “Sylvia’s looks and your brains, boy—not that Sylvia isn’t a pretty brainy gal herself. It does make me wish they were all running around using my pool and facilities at Lake Forest. What is it the poet said—about the phrase ‘it might have been’ being the saddest in the world? Willis, you don’t know it but you’re a lucky damn horse thief.”

“Yes, P.L.,” Willis said, “I guess I am pretty lucky.”

“And that’s a nice shot of your home, too,” P.L. said. “But, say, come across clean now. Isn’t it a little cramped now that the kids are growing up?”

“Well, now you mention it,” Willis said, “I do wish we had another ell or something.”

Willis could not avoid a feeling of suspense, knowing there was something behind every one of old P.L.’s verbal maneuvers, but at the same time it was a pleasure to watch P.L. at work. P.L. was looking in a surprised way at his empty old-fashioned tumbler.

“Hell,” he said, “my tongue’s hanging out. Say, rush me over some more bourbon, and what about you, son? You’ve been nursing that drink ever since I’ve come in here. You act as though you’re suspicious.”

“Why, I was just thinking we might be going down to Green Gauge or somewhere, P.L.,” Willis said, “and I was merely saving a little space.”

“Well, you just start in filling it, son,” P.L. said, “because I like it here. I like to hear that God-damn bird outside. Take a real shot of bourbon, son, and here’s to our not being too smart with each other. Get me?”

“Why, no, P.L.,” Willis said. “I don’t exactly get you at the moment.”

P.L. took out a handkerchief and patted the bald spot on his head.

“Well, I rather think,” he said, and shook his finger slowly at Willis—“I rather think before we’re through here you’ll get my meaning, eventually, and now let’s you and me stop horsing around.”

Willis had to laugh, although it was a time when he should watch himself.

“Why, P.L.,” he said, “I didn’t know we had been.”

“Now stop,” P.L. said. “You know damned well you and I have both been horsing. Finish that drink and take another and sit down.”

“If we’re stopping horsing,” Willis answered, “and if you have something you want to tell me, maybe I’d better not have another drink until I get the news.”

Willis laughed as he said it. Even though he felt annoyed at P.L.’s tactics with the bourbon, Willis was relieved that the horsing around was over. The whole texture of P.L.’s expression changed. He was like an actor off-stage in his dressing room at the end of a performance.

“Son,” P.L. said, “when you get to be my age, maybe you’ll find yourself dreaming dreams like I do. Right now I would like for you to dream back with me to the time when you and I first met. At that period I was suffering from a head cold, and my sinuses haven’t improved any since. I made, you may recall—in fact I know you do—an offer to Mr. Henry Harcourt of five million dollars for that mill of his. I was not interested in the physical plant, since I am a believer in concentration, and Simcoe is situated in the Middle West. I wanted the Klaus patents and other parts of the Harcourt process, and Mr. Henry Harcourt knew it. Well, he turned me down for sentimental reasons, which surprised me, because I know, and you know too, that nothing runs long on sentiment—businesswise.”

P. L. Nagel seemed to be in no hurry, and Willis began to wish that he would make his point. It was growing increasingly difficult to stop himself from leaping ahead to conclusions.

“I hope you’re dreaming right along with me,” P. L. Nagel said. “When old H.H. turned down that offer, I wasn’t worried any. Time solves most things, and I could foresee what would happen under Bryson Harcourt’s management. It was my idea they’d be glad to sell me that property, and they would have—if it hadn’t been for you, son. You’re the nigger in the woodpile—you fooled me.”

Willis could not help but feel flattered, not so much by what P.L. said as by his utter seriousness.

“Oh, now, P.L.,” he said, “you know I couldn’t fool you.”

Willis watched P.L. carefully, but P.L.’s features did not relax.

“Maybe you wouldn’t have fooled me,” P.L. said, “if I had got my facts straight. I didn’t know at the time you had some of the best organizing ability I’ve ever met—and guts.”

It was dangerous to be moved by flattery, but no one familiar with P. L. Nagel could have helped feeling a secret sort of pleasure.

“Oh, come now, P.L.,” Willis said. “Seriously, I’m not as good as that.”

“I wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t know you were, son,” P.L. said, “but just you let me make my point. When you combined Harcourt with Rahway I thought it would be a bust. I didn’t envisage how the Planeroid and the Klaus patents were going to fit. I never thought you’d be giving Simcoe competition and that you and I would be talking serious business.”

P.L. paused again and Willis waited for him to go on until he saw that P.L. was also waiting. It was one of those tense moments that demanded care.

“Are we really talking serious business, P.L.?” Willis asked.

“You’re damned well right we are,” P.L. said, “and to prove it I’d like you to kindly get up and turn the night latch on the door.”

Willis was glad of the opportunity to move across the room and the click of the latch made a satisfactory decisive sound.

“All right, P.L.,” he said, “go ahead and tell me what you want.”

Willis was in the better position, of course. One always was when someone else wanted something. He walked across the room and stood in front of P.L. waiting, and he hardly needed to tell himself to be relaxed.

“Sit down,” P.L. said. “It hurts my neck looking up at you. All right, I want you in the first place, son, to come in as first vice president and in three years to be president of Simcoe. That’s one thing I want and I’m not kidding.”

Willis crossed his right knee carefully over his left. It was important to show no surprise or excitement, and this was very difficult because he had never given any serious thought to being president of one of the biggest belting and industrial-rubber concerns in the country.

“Of course I’m very flattered, P.L.,” he said. “But obviously this is something that requires a lot of considering and I should have to familiarize myself with the whole Simcoe picture.”

P. L. Nagel waved his hand carelessly.

“Of course it needs thought,” he said. “With this God-damn punitive income tax there’s no use saying much about salary, but I’m confident we can do something interesting with stock. I don’t want to name a figure now but I want to leave one thought. You’re about as far as you can get where you are, son. On the other hand, the sky will be the limit at Simcoe.”

Willis smiled courteously. There was no use in giving any indication of anything until there was a definite offer.

“That’s right, P.L.,” he said, “I’m about as far as I can go in the Associates, I suppose, but I’m happy where I am and I know my way around.”

Willis’s words fell into a void of silence.

“You won’t be happy there eventually,” P.L. said. “Anyway, I want you to be running Simcoe in my place. I want the very best, and that means you, son, and that isn’t all I want.”

Apparently P.L. wanted to be asked what else he wanted, but Willis’s instinct told him it was a time to wait, and it was amusing to outwait someone like P.L.

“I also want Harcourt Associates,” P.L. said. “I regret it’s going to cost more than five million. The figure I’m thinking of is in the neighborhood of twenty-five, and now that you know what I want I wish you would sweeten up my glass.”

Willis took the old-fashioned glass from P. L. Nagel. It was not a time to be superficial and he spoke very gravely.

“Frankly,” he said, “I need a minute to catch my breath, P.L.”

Willis had received several offers to leave Harcourt Associates, and the Nagel offer, though more flattering, could be considered as another of the lot, but the idea of the sale of Harcourt Associates was new. He balanced it quickly as he poured the bourbon into P.L.’s glass, and that vague offer of twenty-five million was skillful. It had been dangled out like bait, obviously after P.L. had made a careful study of the Associates, and was conceivably not a top offer. Willis saw that the picture had the unsavory implications of a package deal; but he also knew that he was facing a moment in his life that was fraught with possibilities that might never come again.

“Well, P.L.,” he said, “I’m somewhat curious as to why you want to absorb Harcourt Associates, but then I suppose it’s more your business than it’s mine.”

While P.L. took a sip of his bourbon, Willis tried to recollect how many drinks P.L. had taken, but the number made no difference in P.L.’s mental processes or control.

“I think you know the answer, son,” he said. “I like your conveyor belting, and there are certain parts of your process that I would like to combine with Simcoe. It’s a high price but part of it would be an exchange in stock.” P.L. paused and looked thoughtfully at Willis. “I think, son, if this went through you could buy Rolls-Royces instead of Cadillacs.”

Willis cleared his throat.

“I suppose,” he said, “you wouldn’t keep using the Harcourt Mill or Rahway.”

He could see already that this was the most disturbing problem in the picture and the one which he least wanted to face, and he was relieved that P. L. Nagel did not wish to face it either.

“We would have to make some experiments regarding integration,” P.L. said, “but this seems a small detail.”

“I’m not sure whether it is or not,” Willis answered. “Very frankly the prospect of closing the Harcourt Mill disturbs me. You remember, don’t you, what Mr. Harcourt said about the family feeling for the mill?”

“I’d like it,” P.L. said, and his voice had an imperious sound, “if we laid aside this angle for the moment. If you want my guess a lot of the Harcourt family would like to take that offer. Why don’t you face it? With those two little factories of yours, one in New Jersey and one in Massachusetts, you’re swimming against the tide. I’m throwing you a life raft, son, because I want you up at Simcoe and I want those processes.”

Willis glanced at his wrist watch. It was almost seven, and the discussion could not continue much longer, and that glance at his watch at least showed that he was not too impressed by the conversation to forget the time.

“Well, I must admit that this is all most interesting,” he said, “but there’s one thing about your general approach that leaves a rather bad taste in my mouth. I may as well be frank, P.L.”

“Why, yes,” P.L. said gently, “what is it, son?”

Willis stood up and squared his shoulders. He deliberately took a few moments to set his thoughts in order. It did no harm to keep P.L. waiting. When he did speak he was carried away by his sentiments, and each of his words gave strength to the others.

“P.L.,” he said, “I believe that sincerity and integrity are the cornerstones of any relationship. I am sure you will understand that in my position as the head of my company I am not a free agent because I am the servant of my stockholders. I can recommend but in the end I must follow their wishes. Also I must add that I believe in loyalty, P.L., and my loyalty to the Harcourt family ranks as high as what I owe my own, especially with Mr. Bryson Harcourt incapacitated. I have to think of these things very carefully, P.L. I want to do what’s best for everyone, and what is best for myself comes last.”

Willis stopped. He was moved by what he had said. He had clarified his own thoughts.

“That’s fine, son,” P. L. Nagel said. “I like the way you put it. We both of us are servants to our stockholders, and I counted on you being loyal.”

Willis paused for a moment before he answered. It was growing late but the mockingbird was still singing.

“I merely wanted to make this clear, P.L.,” he said, “because there was one part of your offer to me personally which I do not like. I refer to my future in the Simcoe Company. I hate to say a hard word but I’m afraid I must, P.L. That offer sounds to me somewhat like a bribe, an inducement to facilitate the sale of my company and perhaps to forget certain loyalties and obligations. I’m not saying you meant this, P.L., but it’s the way it sounded. I want you to know in a very friendly way that you can’t bribe me in that manner.”

Willis looked at P.L. steadily, and P.L. set down his glass. For a moment their glances met, but Willis did not allow his to waver for an instant, because it was a time for absolute sincerity.

“Why, son,” P.L. said, and his voice was surprised and sad, “I guess I’m getting to be mighty clumsy. I like straight shooting as much as you do. I never intended any ulterior motive in that personal offer to you—none whatsoever. I want you as president of Simcoe because you’re the best man your age in belting and because I love you—yes, I love you—for the honest things you’ve said and for the very lovely and fine way you’ve presented them.” P. L. Nagel pushed himself up from his chair. “And now if I may use your toilet, son, I think we had better prepare to go down to the banquet, and suppose we meet in my room at ten o’clock tomorrow morning and go on with this little talk. And now let’s shake hands, and no hard feelings, because I really love you, son.”

As Willis often said later, the admiration he felt for P. L. Nagel was always pretty close to hero worship. When they shook hands, everything in their relationship reached a new high and all sorts of doubts were gone from Willis’s mind. Although nothing was settled at all, a good deal appeared to have been, and Willis was at peace with himself.

It was strange to think that an hour before he had not imagined he would be in the position he now occupied. When he walked down the broad staircase of the Carolina beside P. L. Nagel into the wave of voices that rose from the Production Liners filing into the banquet room, Willis could almost believe that he was already an integral part of Simcoe Rubber Hose and Belting. Nothing at all was settled, but he was already wondering how much he ought to tell Sylvia and how Sylvia might react to moving to Lake Forest. It was ridiculous to let his imagination run away with him, because the whole thing might evaporate into thin air, but Willis was already thinking of what he should say to Mrs. Bryson Harcourt and to Bess and Bill in order to put the situation into an agreeable light.

The halls of the Carolina Hotel were ringing already with the song which P. L. Nagel, good old P.L., had rendered already in the suite upstairs:

Nothing could be finer

For an old Production Liner

Than the Hotel Carolina

In the morning.

Aspirin and coffee

Coming in the door

And you only have to holler

To get some more,

If you’re an old Production Liner

In the Hotel Carolina

In the morning.

There was one thing of which Willis was positive. If these things came to pass—and every moment he felt more and more sure that they would—he would do everything to keep the Harcourt Mill in operation, out of loyalty to old memories. He could see its buildings in his memory, ugly individually but combined into a fine progression. He thought of Mr. Henry Harcourt’s office and its hard chairs and its portraits and the coal fireplace. Willis had come close to forgetting what a warm spot he had in his heart for the Harcourt Mill. He certainly would do everything he could—within reason—to keep it in operation.