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But these other fellows? Were they as nervous and afraid as he was? And did they need a job as much as he did? Another exit. Another entrance. His turn very soon now. And what the hell would he say?

III

Behind a glass-topped desk, set diagonally on a dull, green carpet, Studs saw a thick-browed, full-faced, coldly efficient-looking man whose broad shoulders were covered by the jacket of a black business suit. He seemed to have the appearance of being fraternity and ex-collegiate, and Studs felt ready to give up.

“Mr. Lonigan, how do you do? I’m Mr. Parker,” the man said, arising and extending a large, hairy-backed hand.

“How do you do,” Studs mumbled, trying to act like an equal.

“Won’t you have a seat?” Mr. Parker said, pointing to the chair at the near side of his desk.

They sat down, and from the corner of his eye Studs glimpsed the wet, dreary panorama of Grant Park, the blackened driveways, the gray lake, half-smothered in thick mist.

“Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Lonigan?”

“Well, I thought I would come down to see you about a job,” Studs said, and the man’s disconcerting smile made Studs wish that he was anywhere else but sitting opposite this fellow.

“I don’t know if you are aware of it or not, but hundreds come here for that purpose every week.”

Studs smiled weakly, feeling that he was giving himself away and showing by his smile that he had no guts, but still he was unable to check it. The man quietly studied him, his penetrating glance making Studs feel even more hopeless.

“How old are you, Mr. Lonigan?”

“I’ll be thirty this coming fall,” Studs answered, glad for the question because it would lead to talk and break that sitting in silence while that fellow looked through him.

“And how is it that you happen to come to Nation Oil Company? Did somebody send you, or do you know someone already employed here?”

`”Well, I just thought that it would be a good company to work for,” Studs said, hoping that his answer was satisfactory.

Studs felt as if he were a mouse in the hands of a cat while Mr. Parker looked down at his desk, toyed with his pencil. Then with a pointed glance he forced Studs to meet his gaze.

“When did you work last?”

“I’ve been working right along,” Studs said, heeding a warning thought not to show his hand or reveal that he desperately needed a job.

“What sort of work have you been doing, Mr. Lonigan?”

“Painting,” Studs answered, and the man seemed to raise his eyebrows.

“Artist, you mean?”

“No, house painting,” Studs smiled, receiving a return smile which put him more at his ease.

“How does it happen that you want to come to work in a gasoline-filling station? Is it just a lull in your line, and a desire to tide over? Because, you should be informed, when we employ a man, we employ one whom we expect to stay with us and work his way up. Most of our salesmen and many of our executives here, you know, have worked their way up from the service stations. We consider our service stations as a training ground, and hence we cannot employ men just to tide over in dull seasons in their own occupation.”

“Well, I’m giving up painting on account of my health, and I got to get a steady job right away. I have to get some other kind of work,” Studs said, and, perceiving the frown his remark occasioned, he immediately realized that he had pulled a boner.

“What’s the matter with your health, Mr. Lonigan?”

“Well, you know, painting, that is, house-painting, isn’t the most healthy occupation in the world. You can get lead poisoning, and then, too, my lungs, I’ve got to watch them and get different work. I’m not in any serious danger, you see, but I just have to change and get some different work. And in changing, I’ve got to get a good job at outside work, and still something with a future in it.”

“Of course, Mr. Lonigan, I trust that you don’t consider the Nation Oil Company a health resort,” Mr. Parker said after a moment of deep reflection.

“Naturally not,” Studs said, not liking the crack,