Cause for Alarm Read Free Page A

an advertisement for a works manager in one of their smaller factories. I was to call at their offices at three o’clock that day.
    At three o’clock I was there. With me in the reception room were two other men. Both were middle-aged. Both, I guessed, were there on the same business as I was. I was right.
    I was the last to be seen by the works director. He greeted me with an air of patient amiability.
    “Oh yes”—he glanced at my letter lying on the spotless blotting-pad in front of him—“Mr. Marlow, isn’t it? Yes, yes. Now, I asked you to call for a special reason. Quitefrankly we consider you a little too young for consideration in connection with the post under discussion at the moment.” He primped his moustache wearily. I waited. “However,” he went on, “we
could
use a young, unmarried man with your qualifications in connection with an important contract we have just secured. Mind you, I’m not making you a definite offer. If you’re interested we’ll discuss it further. The—er—salary, naturally, is not very large. You probably know how bad things are at the moment, eh? And, of course, it would mean signing on for four years. Still, I don’t suppose that would worry a young man like you. It’s a great place, Bolivia, a great …”
    I interrupted the flow. “Where did you say?”
    He looked surprised. “Bolivia. The Chaco war,” he went on confidently, “showed them the need for relying upon their own resources in time of war. It is a question of establishing two factories and putting them on an economical production basis. The experience alone.…”
    But I had risen. I could feel that I had become very red in the face. “Thank you very much,” I said curtly. “I am afraid, however, that my time is valuable this afternoon. I must apologise for wasting yours. I feel sure that you will find the man you want quite easily.”
    He stared at me for a moment, then shrugged. “Naturally. Good afternoon. Pull the door to behind you as you go, will you?”
    Outside, I bought an evening paper, crossed to a teashop and ordered a cup of tea. Then I noticed that, seated at the next table was one of the men I had seen in the reception room. On a sudden impulse, I leaned across to him.
    “Excuse me, sir. I hope you’ll forgive my asking; but, as a matter of interest, do you mind telling me if you have just been offered a post in South America?”
    He looked startled. He was a grey-haired man with a heavy, intelligent face and large, capable hands. He examinedme suspiciously. Then he grinned.
    “So they tried that on you too, did they? Well, I don’t mind telling you. He did offer me a job in South America—at three quid a week. Said I was too old for the job advertised. Bolivia and three quid a week! Me! I told him what he could do with it. I don’t think he liked it much.”
    “I suppose, then, that the other man got the real job.”
    “Real job?” He laughed derisively. “There isn’t any real job, my friend. That’s just a way of getting good men cheap. I’ve seen that game before. They cut their price to compete with the United States and the Monroe Doctrine. Then they have to make their precious profit. I might have fallen for it, but luckily I’ve got a job of sorts, selling small tools.” He indicated an attaché-case on the chair beside him. “Cheap Jap stuff.”
    I offered him a cigarette. We went on talking. Bit by bit I learned something of his career; and, as I listened to the quiet, almost casual account of the work he had done, I knew that here was a man beside whose qualifications and experience mine were second-rate. This man knew his job supremely well. Other things being equal, no management with any sense would have hesitated to choose him in preference to me. And yet, here he was selling small tools, “Cheap Jap stuff.” When I asked him how business was, he smiled.
    “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said ruefully; “I’m not much good as a traveller.