Mr. Zago was grievously busy, or so Neil was informed by Verne Avondene, the office manager, a courtly old man who had once been rich himself. Mr. Avondene’s lawn had been one of those mowed by the enterprising young firm of Neil & Co., and Mr. Avondene had then said to him, “What great thing in life do you intend to discover? The golden fleece or the cabin at Innisfree?”

“I’m not sure if I’m going to be a doctor or an aviator,” Neil had said.

It had been Verne Avondene who, as secretary of the Federal Club, had telephoned to Neil a few days ago that he was resignated. Now, listening to Neil’s fumbling hints about wanting a job, he looked at Neil as at a light colored man whose effrontery was amusing. He did not take the trouble to say No. He just smiled it.

At the Emporium, Levi Tarr said that the accounting and credit departments were already overstaffed, but would Neil care to be a salesman? “I wish you’d try it. The pay isn’t much, but you might work up to a position as buyer, fairly quickly. I’d like to have you, both as an intelligent man and because I want to get my father to let me use some Negro clerks. You’d be a wedge.”

Neil was very polite, and lied about “other openings.”

–-Me a wedge! Me waiting on old women! Selling ‘em ribbons or whatever it is you do sell ‘em.

He went reluctantly to the Power & Light Company, to his father-in-law, Morton Beehouse, whom he had stringently not seen since New Year’s and who had stopped the intermittent income he had given to Vestal. To that oak façade he stated, “I don’t want a job as charity. I think I’m a fairly good executive.”

“And no doubt you also think that you can support my daughter adequately, after you have antagonized every decent businessman in town. Well, let me tell you, if you get any job whatever with this organization, it will be nothing but charity!”

“Okay,” said Neil as he went.

This was on his second sleety day of job-hunting, and in the afternoon he drove down to the South End, to talk with a Home Loan Association. The streets were slippery enough for chains, and he drove into a garage to have them put on. On the wet floor, gouging the ice off a fender, was a greasy Negro car-washer in torn overalls, who grinned at him and half waved his hand. Slowly, aghast, Neil recognized in this gnome the Captain Philip Windeck whom he had seen at the Jumpin’ Jive, precise and authoritative in his uniform as a flyer.

“Phil!” he cried, with an affection that surprised both of them.

“How are you, Captain—Neil?” the grub hesitated.