took over the reins he found that it was customary to hire ten thousand messengers a year in order to preserve a working force of a thousand. Two months ago he had succeeded in reducing this extravagant turnover to almost fifty percent. And there were indications that it might be further reduced.
Then along came Twilliger with a mandate to slash wages. “There is such a thing as a healthy turnover!” That was Twil-liger’s dictum. The very next month they were obliged to hire over two thousand raw recruits. Even this staggering influx was insufficient to keep the gaps plugged. It was like a dam bursting. There was scarcely a veteran left. That was the very devil of it! Twilliger’s tactics were such that there wasn’t even a substantial nucleus on which to build up a mobile, skeleton force. The very bottom had dropped out. Ads appeared like mushrooms—not only in the metropolitan papers, but in suburban papers, weeklies, church papers, foreign papers, school papers, college magazines. Twilliger would have advertised in Purgatory had he not been a Unitarian.
In conjunction with this frantic newspaper activity, roundup squads were inducted to canvass the schoolyards, playgrounds, lots, pool parlors, movie houses—any place and every place that a boy was likely to be encountered, buttonholed, and appealed to.
But none of these expedients relieved the deplorable mess. The hard labor of three years, the effective welfare and educational work that Moloch had introduced, the confidence in the integrity of the organization which he had gradually instilled—all this evaporated overnight. The Great American Telegraph Company became a good joke. You couldn’t pay the ordinary boy to work for it.
Naturally he was interested in any program of amelioration. But he was skeptical, too. “Can anyone supply that jackass up there in his swivel chair with a new set of brains?” That was the thought which shot through his head as he listened to Prigozi. That seemed the only solution of any moment now. As for Prigozi, tethered as he was to a skein of psychoanalytical theories, what was he to expect from him? Some Freudian-Marx solution, no doubt, which required a categorical affirmative, a stout libido, and a box of Seidlitz powders.
The “revolution” which Prigozi broached with sound and fury turned out upon analysis to be about as radical as the constitution which the Czar Alexander threw to his groveling moujiks. His plan consisted of a string of half-baked ideas which, assuming their feasibility, required at least fifteen years to work out. His campaign of reform had for its object the education of the general public. His goal was the visionary hope of wiping out the stigma attached to the uniform. Even Matt had to smile as he took in Prigozi’s involved explanation for the origin of “these civilized taboos.”
“We’ve heard that junk before,” Matt started to say.
“Leave him be,” urged Moloch. “We’ll give Osawatomie ten more minutes to conclude.” Even Dave chuckled at this.
Prigozi appeared crestfallen. “There’s no sense in going on if that’s the way you feel. I’ll draw it up on paper and submit it to you....”
“Don’t submit it to me,” said Moloch caustically. “Take it up to Twilliger. Maybe he’ll make room for you on his staff.”
“Rub a little insect powder on it first,” jeered Matt. “By the way,” he added maliciously, “what’s that white stuff on your coat collar?”
Without giving Prigozi a chance to explode, Moloch declared: “I’m serious about that suggestion. I think your plan’s cockeyed, but that doesn’t make any difference. Go ahead and show it to Twilliger! Tell him I sent you....”
“Raspberries! You want him to give me a kick in the slats.”
Moloch suavely assured the latter that this was a highly fantastic idea. Twilliger had never been known to kick anybody downstairs. “On the contrary,” he said, “Twilliger may even consider the plan
Then along came Twilliger with a mandate to slash wages. “There is such a thing as a healthy turnover!” That was Twil-liger’s dictum. The very next month they were obliged to hire over two thousand raw recruits. Even this staggering influx was insufficient to keep the gaps plugged. It was like a dam bursting. There was scarcely a veteran left. That was the very devil of it! Twilliger’s tactics were such that there wasn’t even a substantial nucleus on which to build up a mobile, skeleton force. The very bottom had dropped out. Ads appeared like mushrooms—not only in the metropolitan papers, but in suburban papers, weeklies, church papers, foreign papers, school papers, college magazines. Twilliger would have advertised in Purgatory had he not been a Unitarian.
In conjunction with this frantic newspaper activity, roundup squads were inducted to canvass the schoolyards, playgrounds, lots, pool parlors, movie houses—any place and every place that a boy was likely to be encountered, buttonholed, and appealed to.
But none of these expedients relieved the deplorable mess. The hard labor of three years, the effective welfare and educational work that Moloch had introduced, the confidence in the integrity of the organization which he had gradually instilled—all this evaporated overnight. The Great American Telegraph Company became a good joke. You couldn’t pay the ordinary boy to work for it.
Naturally he was interested in any program of amelioration. But he was skeptical, too. “Can anyone supply that jackass up there in his swivel chair with a new set of brains?” That was the thought which shot through his head as he listened to Prigozi. That seemed the only solution of any moment now. As for Prigozi, tethered as he was to a skein of psychoanalytical theories, what was he to expect from him? Some Freudian-Marx solution, no doubt, which required a categorical affirmative, a stout libido, and a box of Seidlitz powders.
The “revolution” which Prigozi broached with sound and fury turned out upon analysis to be about as radical as the constitution which the Czar Alexander threw to his groveling moujiks. His plan consisted of a string of half-baked ideas which, assuming their feasibility, required at least fifteen years to work out. His campaign of reform had for its object the education of the general public. His goal was the visionary hope of wiping out the stigma attached to the uniform. Even Matt had to smile as he took in Prigozi’s involved explanation for the origin of “these civilized taboos.”
“We’ve heard that junk before,” Matt started to say.
“Leave him be,” urged Moloch. “We’ll give Osawatomie ten more minutes to conclude.” Even Dave chuckled at this.
Prigozi appeared crestfallen. “There’s no sense in going on if that’s the way you feel. I’ll draw it up on paper and submit it to you....”
“Don’t submit it to me,” said Moloch caustically. “Take it up to Twilliger. Maybe he’ll make room for you on his staff.”
“Rub a little insect powder on it first,” jeered Matt. “By the way,” he added maliciously, “what’s that white stuff on your coat collar?”
Without giving Prigozi a chance to explode, Moloch declared: “I’m serious about that suggestion. I think your plan’s cockeyed, but that doesn’t make any difference. Go ahead and show it to Twilliger! Tell him I sent you....”
“Raspberries! You want him to give me a kick in the slats.”
Moloch suavely assured the latter that this was a highly fantastic idea. Twilliger had never been known to kick anybody downstairs. “On the contrary,” he said, “Twilliger may even consider the plan
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