than
usual? "Well, at any rate, he's seen to it that the old man can't
establish identity. What a soft lot they are, fellows like poor
Cavenaugh!" Eastman thought of his office as a delightful place.

_McClure's_, November 1915

_The Bookkeeper's Wife_

Nobody but the janitor was stirring about the offices of the Remsen
Paper Company, and still Percy Bixby sat at his desk, crouched on
his high stool and staring out at the tops of the tall buildings
flushed with the winter sunset, at the hundreds of windows, so many
rectangles of white electric light, flashing against the broad waves
of violet that ebbed across the sky. His ledgers were all in their
places, his desk was in order, his office coat on its peg, and yet
Percy's smooth, thin face wore the look of anxiety and strain which
usually meant that he was behind in his work. He was trying to
persuade himself to accept a loan from the company without the
company's knowledge. As a matter of fact, he had already accepted
it. His books were fixed, the money, in a black-leather bill-book,
was already inside his waistcoat pocket.

He had still time to change his mind, to rectify the false figures
in his ledger, and to tell Stella Brown that they couldn't possibly
get married next month. There he always halted in his reasoning, and
went back to the beginning.

The Remsen Paper Company was a very wealthy concern, with easy,
old-fashioned working methods. They did a longtime credit business
with safe customers, who never thought of paying up very close on
their large indebtedness. From the payments on these large accounts
Percy had taken a hundred dollars here and two hundred there until
he had made up the thousand he needed. So long as he stayed by the
books himself and attended to the mail-orders he couldn't possibly
be found out. He could move these little shortages about from
account to account indefinitely. He could have all the time he
needed to pay back the deficit, and more time than he needed.

Although he was so far along in one course of action, his mind still
clung resolutely to the other. He did not believe he was going to do
it. He was the least of a sharper in the world. Being scrupulously
honest even in the most trifling matters was a pleasure to him. He
was the sort of young man that Socialists hate more than they hate
capitalists. He loved his desk, he loved his books, which had no
handwriting in them but