“In Conference”

Harvey Hester entered the outer office of Kramer & Company, Efficiency Engineers. He approached the girl at the desk.

“I want to see Mr. Lansing,” he said.

“A. M. or A. T.?” inquired the girl.

“Mr. A. T. Lansing,” Hester replied.

“What is your name?”

“Harvey Hester.”

The girl pressed a button and wrote something on a slip of paper. A boy appeared. She gave him the paper.

“For Mr. A. T. Lansing,” she said.

The boy went away. Presently a young lady in mannish attire came out.

“I am Mr. Lansing’s secretary,” she said. “Did you want to see him personally?”

“I did and do,” said Hester.

“Well, just now he’s in conference,” said the secretary. “Perhaps you would like to wait.”

“Listen. This is pretty important⁠—”

“I’m sorry, but it’s against the rules to disturb any of the officers in conference.”

“How long will the conference last?”

“It’s hard to say,” replied the secretary. “They just got through one conference and they’re beginning another. It may be ten minutes and it may be an hour.”

“But listen⁠—”

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing for you to do but call again, or else wait.”

“I’ll wait,” snapped Hester, “but I won’t wait long!”

The conferees were sitting around the big table in the conference room. At the head of the table was J. H. Carlisle, president of the firm.

“Where is L. M.?” he inquired crossly. “This is the fifth conference he’s been late to this morning. And we’ve had only six.”

“Well, J. H. C.,” said R. L. Jamieson, a vice-president, “I don’t think we ought to wait for him. If we drag along this way we won’t be able to get in a dozen conferences all day. And a dozen was the absolute minimum agreed on.”

“That’s all right, R. L.,” said K. M. Dewey, another vice-president, “but it happens that L. M. is the one that asked for this conference, and he’s the only one that knows what it’s about. So we’d⁠—”

At this moment the door opened and the tardy one entered. He was L. M. Croft, one of the vice-presidents.

“I’m sorry to be late,” he apologized, addressing J. H. C.

“I was talking over the phone to J. P. The reason I asked for this conference,” he continued, “was to get your thought on a proposition that came up about twenty minutes ago. There was a postcard in the mail addressed to the firm. It was from the main post-office. It says they are holding a letter for us which reached them unstamped. If we sign the card and send it to them, together with a two-cent stamp, they will forward us the letter. Otherwise they will send it to the Dead Letter Office. The question is, Is the letter worth the time and expense of sending for it?”

“Who is the letter from, L. M.?” The inquirer was S. P. Daniels, one of the vice-presidents.

“The card didn’t say, S. P.,” replied Croft.

“My suggestion, J. H. C. and gentlemen,” said A. M. Lansing, a vice-president, “is to write to whoever is in charge of that office, authorize him to open the letter, see who it’s from and what it’s about, and if he thinks it important, to let us know, and then we can mail the required stamp.”

“It’s a mighty ticklish business, gentlemen,” ventured Vice-President T. W. Havers. “I have a brother, G. K. Havers. He’s a pharmaceutical dispenser at a drug store on upper Broadway. He received a card like this from a branch post-office. He signed the card and sent the stamp, and the letter turned out to be nothing but advertising matter from a realtor.”

“Why, T. W.,” said A. T. Lansing, “you never told any one of us you had a brother.”

“Oh, yes, A. T.,” replied Havers. “I’ve got two other brothers besides G. K. One of them, N. D., is a mortuary artisan and the other, V. F., is a garbage practitioner in Harrisburg.”

“I’m one of a family of seven boys,” put in Vice-President B. B. Nordyke.

“I was born in Michigan,” said H. J. Milton, the firm’s secretary, “in a little bit of town called Watervliet.”

“I’m a Yankee myself,” said S. P. Daniels, “born and raised in Hingham, Massachusetts.”

“How far is that from North Attleboro?” asked K. M. Dewey.

“It’s right near Boston, K. M.,” answered S. P. “It’s a suburb of Boston.”

“Philadelphia has some mighty pretty suburbs,” said A. M. Lansing. “Don’t you think so, R. L.?”

“I haven’t been there for fifteen years, A. M.,” replied R. L. Jamieson. “Last time I was there was in 1909.”

“That was fifteen years ago, R. L.,” remarked T. W. Havers.

“That’s what I say, T. W., fifteen years,” said Jamieson.

“I thought you said fourteen years,” rejoined Havers.

“Let’s see,” put in C. T. Miller, treasurer of the firm. “Where was I fifteen years ago? Oh, yes, I was a bibliopolistic actuary in southern Ohio. I was selling Balzac complete for twenty-six dollars.”

“Did you read Jimmie Montague’s poem in the Record this morning, Z. H.?” inquired F. X. Murphy of Z. H. Holt.

“No, F. X.,” replied Holt. “I don’t go in for that highbrow stuff and anyways, when I get through my day’s work here, I’m too tired to read.”

“What do you do with yourself evenings, Z. H.?” asked A. T., the younger of the Lansings.

“Oh, maybe play the player piano or go to a movie or go to bed,” said Holt.

“I bet there’s none of you spends your evenings like I do,” said young Lansing. “Right after dinner, the wife and I sit down in the living room and I tell her everything that I’ve done down here during the day.”

“Don’t she get bored?” asked S. P. Daniels.

“I should say not, S. P.!” replied young Lansing. “She loves it!”

“My sister Minnie⁠—she married L. F. Wilcox, the tire people⁠—she was over to the house last night,” announced L. M. Croft. “She was reading us a poem by this Amy Leslie, the woman that got up this free verse. I couldn’t make much out of it.”

“Gentlemen,” said J. H. C. at this juncture, “have you any more suggestions in regards to this unstamped letter? How about you, Z. H.?” he added, turning to Holt.

“Well, I’ll tell you, J. H. C.,” replied Holt, “a thing like this has got to be handled mighty careful. It may be all right, and it may be a hoax, and it may be out and out blackmail. I remember a somewhat similar case that occurred in my hometown, Marengo, Illinois.”

“Did you know the Lundgrens there?” asked L. M. Croft.

“Yes, indeed, L. M.,” answered Holt. “I used to go into Chicago to see Carl pitch. He was quite a card player, too. But this case I speak of, why, it seems that S. W. Kline⁠—he was a grass truncater around town⁠—why, he received an anonymous postcard with no name signed to it. It didn’t even say who it was from. All it said was that if he would be at a certain corner at a certain hour on a certain day, he would find out something that he’d like to know.”

“What?” interrupted the elder Lansing.

“I was saying,” said Holt, “that in my hometown, Marengo, Illinois, there was a man named S. W. Kline who got an anonymous postcard with no name signed to it, and it said that if he would be at a certain corner at a certain hour on a certain day, he would find out something that he’d like to know.”

“What?” repeated the elder Lansing.

“Never mind, Z. H.,” said J. H. C. “Tell us what happened.”

“Nothing,” said Holt. “Kline never went near the place.”

“That reminds me,” put in K. M. Dewey, “of a funny thing that came off in St. Louis. That’s when I was with the P. D. advertising department. One afternoon the postman brought the mail to our house and my wife looked it over and found a letter addressed to some name like Jennings or Galt or something like that. It wasn’t for us at all. So she laid for the postman next day and gave him back the letter. She said, ‘Look here, here’s a letter that don’t belong to us at all. It’s for somebody else.’ I forget now just what the name was. Anyway, he took the letter and I guess he delivered it to the right people.”

“I got some pretty good Scotch myself for fifty-six dollars a case,” said S. P. Daniels. “It’s old James Buchanan.”

“Where did you get it, S. P.?” inquired Paul Sickles.

“I’ve got the phone number home,” replied Daniels. “I’ll bring it to you tomorrow, Paul.”

Sickles was the only man in the outfit who was not an officer, so they called him Paul instead of by his initials.

“Prohibition’s a joke!” said T. W. Havers.

“People drink now’days that never drank before,” said S. P. Daniels.

“Even nice women are drinking,” said L. M. Croft.

“I think you’ll see light wines and beer before it’s over,” said K. M. Dewey.

J. H. C. spoke again.

“But what about this letter?”

“It seems funny to me,” said A. T. Lansing, “that the people in the post-office don’t open it and find out what it’s all about. Why, my wife opens my personal mail, and when I’m home I open hers.”

“Don’t she care?” asked S. P. Daniels.

“No, S. P.,” said the younger Lansing. “She thinks everything I do is all right.”

“My wife got a letter last week with no stamp on it at all,” said Sickles. “The stamp must have dropped off. All it was anyways was a circular about mah jongg sets.”

“Do you play with flowers, Paul?” asked K. M. Dewey.

“Why⁠—”

Harvey Hester, in the outer office, looked at his watch for the twentieth time; then got up and went to the girl at the desk.

“Please have Mr. Lansing’s secretary come out here again,” he said.

“A. M. or A. T.?” asked the girl.

“A. T.,” said Hester.

The secretary came out.

“Listen,” said Hester. “If I can’t see Mr. Lansing right this minute it’ll be too late.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t interrupt him when he’s in conference.”

“All right,” said Hester. “Will you please give him this message? You’ve got my name. Mr. Lansing and I were in school together and were more or less friendly. Well, I was tipped off this morning⁠—I don’t need to tell you how⁠—I was tipped off that Mrs. Lansing is leaving for Chicago on the 12:05 train. And she isn’t leaving alone. She’s eloping. I thought Mr. Lansing might want to try to stop her.”

“What time is it now?”

“Seven minutes of twelve,” said Hester. “He can just make it.”

“But he’s still in conference,” said the secretary.