humorous melodrama, then The Job appeared to him as picaresque
adventure, and he was in peril of his imagination.


The eight-o'clock sun, which usually found a wildly shaving Mr.
Wrenn, discovered him dreaming that he was the manager of the
Souvenir Company. But that was a complete misunderstanding of
the case. The manager of the Souvenir Company was Mr. Mortimer
R. Guilfogle, and he called Mr. Wrenn in to acquaint him with
that fact when the new magnate started his career in Big
Business by arriving at the office one hour late.

What made it worse, considered Mr. Guilfogle, was that this
Wrenn had a higher average of punctuality than any one else in
the office, which proved that he knew better. Worst of all, the
Guilfogle family eggs had not been scrambled right at breakfast;
they had been anemic. Mr. Guilfogle punched the buzzer and set
his face toward the door, with a scowl prepared.

Mr. Wrenn seemed weary, and not so intimidated as usual.

"Look here, Wrenn; you were just about two hours late this
morning. What do you think this office is? A club or a
reading-room for hoboes? Ever occur to you we'd like to have
you favor us with a call now and then so's we can learn how
you're getting along at golf or whatever you're doing these days?"

There was a sample baby-shoe office pin-cushion on the manager's
desk. Mr. Wrenn eyed this, and said nothing. The manager: