head. ‘Harold, you’re a case, the worst I’ve ever seen. You know very well the boss isn’t trying to cheat you. In fact, I begged him – I
begged
him to fire you and haul you into court. God knows you deserve it.
‘But no, he said he wouldn’t even stop the money out of your wages. He said if you didn’t want to pay him, that was between you and your conscience. “I’m worried about Harold,” he said to me. “I think I’ll just garnishee his wages until he pays me back.”
‘You see, he knows you’ve got this shack-job in Boston, and he figures it ain’t doing your character any good. But by the time you get squared away on your debt, she’ll have forgotten all about you. Not only that, but you’ll get all your pay at once, a real pile.’
‘I’m starving,’ Harold announced humbly. ‘To death.’
Karl continued counting paper clips. ‘You’re a real case,’ he muttered.
Section III: Further Progress
Having devised a method for rebending and re-using old paper clips, Karl saw a further short cut. Rather than eradicate the ink from old forms, he encouraged the others to use disappearing ink in the first place.
Willard kept his knife in his hand at all times, now, and feared everyone who moved suddenly or talked loudly. He took up whittling, to give himself an excuse for holding a knife. One day Masterson, jogging by, asked him if he could make a table, since he was so clever with his hands.
One week later, Willard presented him with a perfect matchbox-size Louis Quinze table, painted and gilded. Lifting it from his calloused palm, Willard set it carefully in the centre of the boss’s desk.
‘Idiot!’ Masterson screamed, and brought his fist down on it. ‘I meant a
real
table. A table of our progress.’
‘Wait,’ said Karl. ‘If he can do this, Willard here can make big tables for all the clerks. Then we could sell off all the desks.’
Masterson had taken down and discarded the dart board, and now his walls were covered with charts. He and Karl planned many new charts and tables, and Harold executed them.
There was a chart of business volume compared to paper-clip expenditure, one of volume of work versus man-hours, one of level of water in the water cooler versus work output and one of Mr. Masterson’s weight versus the strength of his grip. They were inversely proportional,so that, had his weight been zero, his grip would have been a thousand pounds.
Three times a day he lifted weights in his office, rising on the toes and exploding breath through clenched teeth. At lunch hour, he ran three laps around the block, showered and gulped quantities of natural foods. Most mornings he came in with skinned knuckles and stories of brawls that frightened Willard. Masterson was no longer a shapeless bulgy man of indeterminate age, but a handsome, powerful man of about twenty-five.
‘He’s getting in shape to die,’ Ed ‘opined.’
Masterson had Harold post charts of his progress. There were graphs of his biceps and triceps, and a phrenological chart of his head. The boss began to talk about what great shape the company was in, squeezing grip developers as he talked.
‘As soon as we trim off a little fat here and there, as soon as we fire the draughtsmen, we’ll be in great shape.’ He fired the draughtsmen next day,
en masse
, owing them three weeks’ wages, and Henry complained to Clark about it.
Clark was getting jowly and near-sighted from cream cheese and law, and his temper was noticeably shorter. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ he said. ‘
Caveat emptor
. Why come to me with your problems? All I want is to be left alone with Law.’
Henry scooped up some dirty, tattered forms from the floor and began filling them out, in invisible ink. For several weeks, no work had left the office. Messengers who called to pick up work were sent out to get more natural foods for Mr. Masterson. Karl sent them on errands for invisible carbon paper, or to sell the desks that were
begged
him to fire you and haul you into court. God knows you deserve it.
‘But no, he said he wouldn’t even stop the money out of your wages. He said if you didn’t want to pay him, that was between you and your conscience. “I’m worried about Harold,” he said to me. “I think I’ll just garnishee his wages until he pays me back.”
‘You see, he knows you’ve got this shack-job in Boston, and he figures it ain’t doing your character any good. But by the time you get squared away on your debt, she’ll have forgotten all about you. Not only that, but you’ll get all your pay at once, a real pile.’
‘I’m starving,’ Harold announced humbly. ‘To death.’
Karl continued counting paper clips. ‘You’re a real case,’ he muttered.
Section III: Further Progress
Having devised a method for rebending and re-using old paper clips, Karl saw a further short cut. Rather than eradicate the ink from old forms, he encouraged the others to use disappearing ink in the first place.
Willard kept his knife in his hand at all times, now, and feared everyone who moved suddenly or talked loudly. He took up whittling, to give himself an excuse for holding a knife. One day Masterson, jogging by, asked him if he could make a table, since he was so clever with his hands.
One week later, Willard presented him with a perfect matchbox-size Louis Quinze table, painted and gilded. Lifting it from his calloused palm, Willard set it carefully in the centre of the boss’s desk.
‘Idiot!’ Masterson screamed, and brought his fist down on it. ‘I meant a
real
table. A table of our progress.’
‘Wait,’ said Karl. ‘If he can do this, Willard here can make big tables for all the clerks. Then we could sell off all the desks.’
Masterson had taken down and discarded the dart board, and now his walls were covered with charts. He and Karl planned many new charts and tables, and Harold executed them.
There was a chart of business volume compared to paper-clip expenditure, one of volume of work versus man-hours, one of level of water in the water cooler versus work output and one of Mr. Masterson’s weight versus the strength of his grip. They were inversely proportional,so that, had his weight been zero, his grip would have been a thousand pounds.
Three times a day he lifted weights in his office, rising on the toes and exploding breath through clenched teeth. At lunch hour, he ran three laps around the block, showered and gulped quantities of natural foods. Most mornings he came in with skinned knuckles and stories of brawls that frightened Willard. Masterson was no longer a shapeless bulgy man of indeterminate age, but a handsome, powerful man of about twenty-five.
‘He’s getting in shape to die,’ Ed ‘opined.’
Masterson had Harold post charts of his progress. There were graphs of his biceps and triceps, and a phrenological chart of his head. The boss began to talk about what great shape the company was in, squeezing grip developers as he talked.
‘As soon as we trim off a little fat here and there, as soon as we fire the draughtsmen, we’ll be in great shape.’ He fired the draughtsmen next day,
en masse
, owing them three weeks’ wages, and Henry complained to Clark about it.
Clark was getting jowly and near-sighted from cream cheese and law, and his temper was noticeably shorter. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ he said. ‘
Caveat emptor
. Why come to me with your problems? All I want is to be left alone with Law.’
Henry scooped up some dirty, tattered forms from the floor and began filling them out, in invisible ink. For several weeks, no work had left the office. Messengers who called to pick up work were sent out to get more natural foods for Mr. Masterson. Karl sent them on errands for invisible carbon paper, or to sell the desks that were
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