母亲节英语The Romance of a Busy Broker证券经纪人的浪漫故事

2021年1月20日发(作者：数量级)
The Romance of a Busy Broker
证券经纪人的浪漫故
事

Pitcher,
confidential
clerk
in
the
office
of
Harvey
Maxwell,
broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit
his usually expressionless countenance when his employer
briskly
entered
at
half
past
nine
in
company
with
his
young
lady
stenographer. With a snappy Good- morning, Pitcher, Maxwell
dashed
at
his
desk
as
though
he
were
intending
to
leap
over
it,
and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams
waiting there for him.
The
young
lady
had
been
Maxwell's
stenographer
for
a
year.
She
was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She
forewent
the
pomp
of
the
alluring
pompadour.
She
wore
no
chains,
bracelets or lockets. She had not the air of being about to
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accept
an
invitation
to
luncheon.
Her
dress
was
grey
and
plain,
but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion. In her
neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. On
this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were
dreamily
bright,
her
cheeks
genuine
peachblow,
her expression
a happy one, tinged with reminiscence.
Pitcher,
still
mildly
curious,
noticed
a
difference
in
her
ways
this
morning.
Instead
of
going
straight
into
the
adjoining
room,
where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the
outer
office.
Once
she
moved
over
by
Maxwell's
desk,
near
enough
for him to be aware of her presence.
The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was
a busy New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling
springs.
Well--what is it Anything asked Maxwell sharply. His opened
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mail
lay
like
a
bank
of
stage
snow
on
his
crowded
desk.
His
keen
grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half
impatiently.
Nothing, answered the stenographer, moving away with a little
smile.
Mr.
Pitcher,
she
said
to
the
confidential
clerk,
did
Mr.
Maxwell
say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer
He did, answered Pitcher. He told me to get another one. I
notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few
samples this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single
picture
hat
or
piece
of
pineapple
chewing
gum
has
showed
up
yet.
I will do the work as usual, then, said the young lady, until
some one comes to fill the place. And she went to her desk at
once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw
wing in its accustomed place.
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He
who
has
been
denied
the
spectacle
of
a
busy
Manhattan
broker
during
a
rush
of
business
is
handicapped
for
the
profession
of
anthropology. The poet sings of the crowded hour of glorious
life. The broker's hour is not only crowded, but the minutes
and
seconds
are
hanging
to
all
the
straps
and
packing
both
front
and rear platforms.
And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day. The ticker began
to
reel
out
jerkily
its
fitful
coils
of
tape,
the
desk
telephone
had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the
office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply,
viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with
messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about
like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher's face relaxed into
something resembling animation.
On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and
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snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental
disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker's
offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and
transacted
business
after
the
manner
of
a
toe
dancer.
He
jumped
from ticker to 'phone, from desk to door with the trained
agility of a harlequin.
In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker
became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair
under
a
nodding
canopy
of
velvet
and
ostrich
tips,
an
imitation
sealskin
sacque
and
a
string
of
beads
as
large
as
hickory
nuts,
ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a
self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories;
and Pitcher was there to construe her.
Lady
from
the
Stenographer's
Agency
to
see
about
the
position,
said Pitcher.
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Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and
ticker tape.
What position he asked, with a frown.
Position of stenographer, said Pitcher. You told me yesterday
to call them up and have one sent over this morning.
You are losing your mind, Pitcher, said Maxwell. Why should I
have given you any such instructions Miss Leslie has given
perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The
place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There's no
place
open
here,
madam.
Countermand
that
order
with
the
agency,
Pitcher, and don't bring any more of 'em in here.
The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself
independently against the office furniture as it indignantly
departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper
that
the
old
man
seemed
to
get
more
absent-minded
and
forgetful
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every day of the world.
The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the
floor
they
were
pounding
half
a
dozen
stocks
in
which
Maxwell's
customers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were
coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of
his
own
holdings
were
imperilled,
and
the
man
was
working
like
some high-geared, delicate, strong machine-- strung to full
tension,
going
at
full
speed,
accurate,
never
hesitating,
with
the proper word and decision and act ready and prompt as
clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and
securities--here
was
a
world
of
finance,
and
there
was
no
room
in it for the human world or the world of nature.
When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in
the uproar.
Maxwell
stood by his
desk with
his
hands
full
of
telegrams
and
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memoranda,
with
a
fountain
pen
over
his right
ear and
his hair
hanging
in
disorderly
strings
over
his
forehead.
His
window
was
open, for the beloved janitress Spring had turned on a little
warmth through the waking registers of the earth.
And through the window came a wandering--perhaps a
lost--odour --a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the
broker
for
a
moment
immovable.
For
this
odour
belonged
to
Miss
Leslie; it was her own, and hers only.
The
odour
brought
her
vividly,
almost
tangibly
before
him.
The
world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she was in
the next room--twenty steps away.
By George, I'll do it now, said Maxwell, half aloud. I'll ask
her now. I wonder I didn't do it long ago.
He
dashed
into
the
inner
office
with
the
haste
of
a
short
trying
to cover. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.
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