The Washington times., 1932-08-06

co." he droned. You're too
old"
Frank swallowed hard.
cant I have another
chance? l need this job so
much. 1t isn't my fault
that"
The cook stirred the stew
with his left thumb.
Collect your pay and beat
It," he muttered vacantly.
"The boss says to let you CO."
Nothing more to be said now.
His first job in six months was
q thing of the past. Frank
removed the apron that had
been clean only eight days be-
fore, collected the dollar that
was due him and walked de-
1ectedly from the beanery.
His feet carried him three
blocks to the nearest subway
entrance. In addition to the
dollar, there was a lonesome
scent piece in his pocket. He
dropped the coin in a turnstile
and boarded the first train
that came along.
In a short time he was sit
ting on that same familiar
bench in Battery Park; the
same spot on which he had
sat for endless hours in days
gone by. He stared out at the
water through dull eyes.
Il heard it again." he NUT
tered to himself. That same
phrase. All right, let him 60
! heard it again"
Memories. Dismal memories.
Haunting memories that time
would not eradicate. Fantastic
memories of the endless phrase.
His father had wanted him
to be a farmer. Surely he
would follow in the footsteps
of three generations. But that
was not for Frank. He wanted
the roar of the big city and
the excitement that went with
1t. He wanted the softer sur.
roundings of a large office.
And even though it had been
40 years since he left the farm,
he remembered only too well
his fathers last, bitter words:
Life Is a Battle
"All right, let him go. And
much good may it do him. Let
him CO."
The old man had been right.
It hadn't done him much good.
At the age of 20. he joined the
Stoutheart Steel Company as
. junior clerk. And for year
after year, he remained in the
I same office. He reached the
peak of his career many years
later when he was made the
bookkeeper in his particular Of
flee at a salary of $35 a week.
He had married at an early
age. Twenty-Five. And from
the day of the ceremony, life
was just one battle after an
other. The office was the only
refuge he knew from the bit
ing tongue and the scornful
contempt of the woman he had
married. For fully Is years,
this woman derided his every
effort, belittled his every hope
and spent every one of the few
dollars he earned. Eventually,
she ran away with the lodger
in their home.
The loss was of no great con-
sequence to Frank. He was
sensible enough to realize that
1t was most certainly for the
best. But he heard something
a few days before the elope-
ment; something that dug into
his very soul.
AS he passed the parlor, he
heard his wife and the lodger
discussing him. The man talk
ing.
Say, there's been somethin'
on my mind. Frank amt such
a terrible bad guy. Did you
ever think that, if we go away
together, he'd be likely to go
to pieces?"
His wife's voice was cold.
Harsh. Brutal.
"All right" was her reply.
''Let him 60"
Gets = Blue Ticket
Frank didn't go to pieces,
What for? He had nothing be-
fore. He had nothing now.
The scales balanced. The Of
flee was his one relief. He
found consolation in work, even
though the work was cut and
dried. So on and on rolled the
years. On and on and on.
Came the crash, which has
replaced that other hackneyed
phrase, "came the dawn" :" And
with the crash came cuts and
the laying off of labor in the
Stoutheart Steel Company.
Frank wasn't an eaveSdropper.
Never was and never wanted to
be. But how could he help
overhearing the discussion? His
tiny office was right beside the
one that was occupied by the
staff manager-and the walls
were pitifully thin.
How about old Frank Smith,"
the chief accountant queried.
"He'S been with us almost 40
years, and he's getting pretty
slow. Shame to do it. Sure it
is. But we must cut. How about
it?"
And somewhere. Fate must
have laughed up her sleeve as