r was proper, squirrels and babies and
numerous other smaller, crawly things were wont to mingle together in
democratic unconcern. But to him, this morning, it was just so much
pavement.

He punched the time clock viciously as he passed through the office
lobby and barely escaped collision with Mr. Boner as he turned the
corner of the partition en route to his desk. Mr. Boner merely
grunted. He bore in his hand a sheaf of orders for the mailing desk.
He believed in getting an early start.

Joe sat down before his desk and gazed listlessly out of the window.
The day arose before him in prospect, drab, desolate, and dreary. High
up overhead, through the dingy panes, he could see the little fleecy
clouds floating about in peaceful unconcern. May was a slack month.
And at its end came June--June, with its four weeks' inventory period
wherein each stick and stone of the entire plant, each ten-penny nail,
each carriage bolt, would have to be listed, valued, and carried into
an imposing total. It meant working late into the night under a
pitiless glare with handkerchief tied about one's neck like a washer.
It meant cramped fingers, and hot dry eyes, and a back that ached when
it didn't feel crawly with infinitesimal bugs, and bugs that bumped
and buzzed and then fell sprawling across one's paper. Each item had
to be entered upon the sheet. Each item had to be valued. Discounts
had to be figured, extensions had to be made, figures had to be
checked meticulously, and the whole thing eventually bound up in six
or eight huge volumes which were then allowed to languish in the
Company safe. He had been through it before. And the thought of it was
intolerable. This was June. June and inventory and Mr. Boner seemed to
him to be cut from the same piece. For neither did Mr. Boner escape.
Instead, he came earlier, stayed later, and worked with more furious
rapidity than ever. And he was Mr. Boner's successor--that is, if he
hit the ball and worked hard enough to deserve it. The thought of the
little boy whose mother gave him a nickle every time he took his
castor oil manfully came to his mind as he sat and gazed out the
window. When asked what he did with the nickles, the Spartan youth had
replied: "Buy more castor oil with it." Joe wearily dragged one of his
stock ledgers from the rack and opened it.

All that day, as he made his entries and checked his totals, came the
thought, "Why am I doing this? What is it all for?" He was feeli