ripped the gears out of the big Buick, hurtling it through.
He parked in his usual place by the loading depot, and was hardly mollified by the warm good morning old Mack Seelly, one of the watchmen and a man who had started in the plant not too long after Lowellâs father built it, gave him. He stalked into the office wing, relaxing to the extent of lighting a cigarette only when he was in the self-service elevator and on his way up. He thought that it was something of a shame that he had not brought Elliott Abbott with him this morning, so that the doctorâs sentimentalism in terms of workers might come to rest on something concrete. In Lowell, who was not an easy man to like, there was a deep need for the liking of others; and even such small matters as the smiles of the girls in the office reassured him.
The office wing of the Lowell Company had been added early in the nineteen-twenties, but the offices themselves, while spacious, were done in the dark oak and somber red of at least two decades before. There was nothing frivolous about them, nor was there any attempt at sophistication; and perhaps in unconscious opposition to his wifeâs course at home, as well as for other reasons, Lowell left them completely alone. At the same time, he could not stomach the thought of sitting in the enormous room that had been his fatherâs; he handed it over to Tom Wilson, the plant manager, retaining Wilsonâs office as his own.
Now he was at his desk only a few minutes, staring idly and without a great deal of interest at the pile of mail, when Wilson entered, his face bisected with a broad grin, his out-thrust hand demanding Lowellâs, gripping it, âGood to see you back on the firing line, George.â Wilson was a given-name man, a fact that he implemented five years ago, when Lowell first met him. It was, âWelcome to the firing line, Georgeâ then, and it was some variant of the same ever since. In any case, Wilson did it well. He was a big man, not too tall, but big and fleshy, broad-shouldered, in his late forties, with a considerable paunch already developed. Three chins led down to his collar, and he had a booming, somewhat hoarse voice, a tremendous affinity for the Lowell Enterprises, and a security in himself, his way of life, his mission in life, and his position in life that Lowell at one and the same time despised and envied. Lowell did not like him; Wilson knew this, and considered it a challenge, respecting the dislike as coming from the type of man Lowell was, a type he admired highlyâin a sense being proud of the dislikeâand unswervingly determined to eliminate it.
He sat down, alongside Lowellâs desk, and gave him a detailed report of what had occurred in the past two days, a series of facts in which Lowell was only formally interested. Pausing only to bite off the end of a cigar and light it, he went on to relate these facts to the situation in the country as a whole, the great wave of strikes, the possibilities of war with Russia, and the excess profits tax, which provided that if, during the current year, the profits of the corporation fell below the profits of 1939, the difference would be supplied by the government.
âWhich puts us in a sound position economically,â Wilson said. âJust on that simple basis of dollars and cents, it would almost pay us to keep the plant shut down. But thatâs short-sighted thinking. I donât like shortsighted thinking and planning. You agree with me there?â
âI agree with you,â Lowell said. âI donât intend to keep the plant shut down.â Actually, he had come to the decision that once it opened, once the strike was over, he would drop the operation of it into Wilsonâs lapâand go away; for the rest of the winter, certainly, and perhaps for a longer time than that.
âFor one thing,â Wilson went on, âitâs going to breed trouble for the future.
He parked in his usual place by the loading depot, and was hardly mollified by the warm good morning old Mack Seelly, one of the watchmen and a man who had started in the plant not too long after Lowellâs father built it, gave him. He stalked into the office wing, relaxing to the extent of lighting a cigarette only when he was in the self-service elevator and on his way up. He thought that it was something of a shame that he had not brought Elliott Abbott with him this morning, so that the doctorâs sentimentalism in terms of workers might come to rest on something concrete. In Lowell, who was not an easy man to like, there was a deep need for the liking of others; and even such small matters as the smiles of the girls in the office reassured him.
The office wing of the Lowell Company had been added early in the nineteen-twenties, but the offices themselves, while spacious, were done in the dark oak and somber red of at least two decades before. There was nothing frivolous about them, nor was there any attempt at sophistication; and perhaps in unconscious opposition to his wifeâs course at home, as well as for other reasons, Lowell left them completely alone. At the same time, he could not stomach the thought of sitting in the enormous room that had been his fatherâs; he handed it over to Tom Wilson, the plant manager, retaining Wilsonâs office as his own.
Now he was at his desk only a few minutes, staring idly and without a great deal of interest at the pile of mail, when Wilson entered, his face bisected with a broad grin, his out-thrust hand demanding Lowellâs, gripping it, âGood to see you back on the firing line, George.â Wilson was a given-name man, a fact that he implemented five years ago, when Lowell first met him. It was, âWelcome to the firing line, Georgeâ then, and it was some variant of the same ever since. In any case, Wilson did it well. He was a big man, not too tall, but big and fleshy, broad-shouldered, in his late forties, with a considerable paunch already developed. Three chins led down to his collar, and he had a booming, somewhat hoarse voice, a tremendous affinity for the Lowell Enterprises, and a security in himself, his way of life, his mission in life, and his position in life that Lowell at one and the same time despised and envied. Lowell did not like him; Wilson knew this, and considered it a challenge, respecting the dislike as coming from the type of man Lowell was, a type he admired highlyâin a sense being proud of the dislikeâand unswervingly determined to eliminate it.
He sat down, alongside Lowellâs desk, and gave him a detailed report of what had occurred in the past two days, a series of facts in which Lowell was only formally interested. Pausing only to bite off the end of a cigar and light it, he went on to relate these facts to the situation in the country as a whole, the great wave of strikes, the possibilities of war with Russia, and the excess profits tax, which provided that if, during the current year, the profits of the corporation fell below the profits of 1939, the difference would be supplied by the government.
âWhich puts us in a sound position economically,â Wilson said. âJust on that simple basis of dollars and cents, it would almost pay us to keep the plant shut down. But thatâs short-sighted thinking. I donât like shortsighted thinking and planning. You agree with me there?â
âI agree with you,â Lowell said. âI donât intend to keep the plant shut down.â Actually, he had come to the decision that once it opened, once the strike was over, he would drop the operation of it into Wilsonâs lapâand go away; for the rest of the winter, certainly, and perhaps for a longer time than that.
âFor one thing,â Wilson went on, âitâs going to breed trouble for the future.
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