Girard leaned back thoughtfully in his chair.
“Well, Parrish, that isn’t half bad,” he said. “I don’t know but what the idea appeals to me—take a run over there for the sea voyage and a glimpse of the London Stock Ex—— I mean the Tower of London. Yes, sir, you’ve put an idea in my head.” He turned to the other young man, who during this recital had been shifting uneasily in his chair. “Now, Van Buren, let’s hear how you took your ease.”
“I thought over the travel idea,” burst out Van Buren excitedly, “and I decided against it. A man of sixty doesn’t want to spend his time running back and forth between the capitals of Europe. It might fill up a year or so, but that’s all. No, sir, the main thing is to have some strong interest—and especially one that’ll be for the public good, because when a man gets along in years he wants to feel that he’s leaving the world better for having lived in it. So I worked out a plan—it’s for a historical and archaeological endowment center, a thing that’d change the whole face of public education, a thing that any man would be interested in giving his time and money to. I’ve spent my whole two weeks working out the plan in detail, and let me tell you it’d be nothing but play work—just suited to the last years of an active man’s life. It’s been fascinating, Mr. Girard. I’ve learned more from doing it than I ever knew before—and I don’t think I ever had a happier two weeks in my life.”
When he had finished, Cyrus Girard nodded his head up and down many times in an approving and yet somehow dissatisfied way.
“Found an institute, eh?” he muttered aloud. “Well, I’ve always thought that maybe I’d do that some day—but I never figured on running it myself. My talents aren’t much in that line. Still, it’s certainly worth thinking over.”
He got restlessly to his feet and began walking up and down the carpet, the dissatisfied expression deepening on his face. Several times he took out his watch and looked at it as if hoping that perhaps Jones had not gone to Chicago after all, but would appear in a few moments with a plan nearer his heart.
“What’s the matter with me?” he said to himself unhappily. “When I say a thing I’m used to going through with it. I must be getting old.”
Try as he might, however, he found himself unable to decide. Several times he stopped in his walk and fixed his glance first on one and then on the other of the two young men, trying to pick out some attractive characteristic to which he could cling and make his choice. But after several of these glances their faces seemed to blur together and he couldn’t tell one from the other. They were twins who had told him the same story—of carrying the stock exchange by aeroplane to London and making it into a moving-picture show.
“I’m sorry, boys,” he said haltingly. “I promised I’d decide this morning, and I will, but it means a whole lot to me and you’ll have to give me a little time.”
They both nodded, fixing their glances on the carpet to avoid encountering his distraught eyes.
Suddenly he stopped by the table and picking up the telephone called the general manager’s office.
“Say, Galt,” he shouted into the mouthpiece, “you sure you sent Jones to Chicago?”
“Positive,” said a voice on the other end. “He came in here couple of days ago and said he was half crazy for something to do. I told him it was against orders, but he said he was out of the competition anyhow and we needed somebody who was competent to handle that silver. So I——”
“Well, you shouldn’t have done it, see? I wanted to talk to him about something, and you shouldn’t have done it.”
Clack! He hung up the receiver and resumed his endless pacing up and down the floor. Confound Jones, he thought. Most ungrateful thing he ever heard of after he’d gone to all this trouble for his father’s sake. Outrageous! His mind went off on a tangent and he began to wonder whether Jones would handle that business out in Chicago. It was a complicated situation—but then, Jones was a trustworthy fellow. They were all trustworthy fellows. That was the whole trouble.
Again he picked up the telephone. He would call Lola; he felt vaguely that if she wanted to she could help him. The personal element had eluded him here; her opinion would be better than his own.
“I have to ask your pardon, boys,” he said unhappily; “I didn’t mean there to be all this fuss and delay. But it almost breaks my heart when I think of handing this shop over to anybody at all, and when I try to decide, it all gets dark in my mind.” He hesitated. “Have either one of you asked my daughter to marry him?”
“I did,” said Parrish; “three weeks ago.”
“So did I,” confessed Van Buren; “and I still have hopes that she’ll change her mind.”
Girard wondered if Jones had asked her also. Probably not; he never did anything he was expected to do. He even had the wrong name.
The phone in his hand rang shrilly and with an automatic gesture he picked up the receiver.
“Chicago calling, Mr. Girard.”
“I don’t want to talk to anybody.”
“It’s personal. It’s Mr. Jones.”
“All right,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Put him on.”
A series of clicks—then Jones’ faintly Southern voice over the wire.
“Mr. Girard?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been trying to get you since ten o’clock in order to apologize.”
“I should think you would!” exploded Girard. “Maybe you know you’re fired.”
“I knew I would be,” said Jones gloomily. “I guess I must be pretty dumb, Mr. Girard, but I’ll tell you the truth—I can’t have a good time when I quit work.”
“Of course you can’t!” snapped Girard. “Nobody can——” He corrected himself. “What I mean is, it isn’t an easy matter.”
There was a pause at the other end of the line.
“That’s exactly the way I feel,” came Jones’ voice regretfully. “I guess we understand each other, and there’s no use my saying any more.”
“What do you mean—we understand each other?” shouted Girard. “That’s an impertinent remark, young man. We don’t understand each other at all.”
“That’s what I meant,” amended Jones; “I don’t understand you and you don’t understand me. I don’t want to quit working, and you—you do.”
“Me quit work!” cried Girard, his face reddening. “Say, what are you talking about? Did you say I wanted to quit work?” He shook the telephone up and down violently. “Don’t talk back to me, young man! Don’t tell me I want to quit! Why—why, I’m not going to quit work at all! Do you hear that? I’m not going to quit work at all!”
The transmitter slipped from his grasp and bounced from the table to the floor. In a minute he was on his knees, groping for it wildly.
“Hello!” he cried. “Hello—hello! Say get Chicago back! I wasn’t through!”
The two young men were on their feet. He hung up the receiver and turned to them, his voice husky with emotion.
“I’ve been an idiot,” he said brokenly. “Quit work at sixty! Why—I must have been an idiot! I’m a young man still—I’ve got twenty good years in front of me! I’d like to see anybody send me home to die!”
The phone rang again and he took up the receiver with fire blazing in his eyes.
“Is this Jones? No, I want Mr. Jones; Rip Jones. He’s—he’s my partner.” There was a pause. “No, Chicago, that must be another party. I don’t know any Mrs. Jones—I want Mr.——”
He broke off and the expression on his face changed slowly. When he spoke again his husky voice had grown suddenly quiet.
“Why—why, Lola——”
Notes
“The Third Casket” was written in Great Neck in March 1924. The Post paid $1750 for it. After the expiration of the story options with Metropolitan and International, Fitzgerald became virtually a Post author for the next decade. All of his best stories were offered there first, and the Post steadily raised his story price to a peak of $4000 in 1929. The Post obviously regarded Fitzgerald as a star author. His name regularly appeared on the cover, and his stories were prominently positioned. “Casket” was the lead story in the issue, following a serial.
Like most of the stories Fitzgerald wrote in 1924, “The Third Casket” depends on plot rather than character. Here he adapted an episode from The Merchant of Venice—which Shakespeare had borrowed from somebody else.
“The Third Casket” was tailored to the business values of the Post. The simple message is that work is more rewarding than leisure.
