Уильям Макгиверн - Collected Fiction - 1940-1963

It occurred to Mr. Throckmorton that he had been stupid to imagine John Brown had no debts. Oh, well, probably some piddling thing. Write out a check for the fellow and clear it up. In the next instant Mr. Throckmorton recalled that he could no longer write out checks.

“Or else what?” said Mr. Throckmorton. He rather liked that. He had heard the phrase once in a gangster movie, but had never been able to use it inasmuch as no one ever said “or else” to Thaddeus Throckmorton. He almost had a warm feeling toward the collector for giving him the opportunity. “Or else what?” he repeated.

“Or else—” The irritating collector moved in closer and pushed his forefinger against his debtor’s chest “—we’ll have to garnishee yer wages! It might mean yer job, Brown.”

Mr. Throckmorton wrinkled John Brown’s forehead in perplexity. He would have to find out more about this. “How much do I owe?” he asked.

“Two hunnert bucks is the principal. Yer interest fer this month and last month is fifteen bucks.” The collector had opened the pages in his notebook and was running a grimy thumb down a column of figures.

“Here.” Mr. Throckmorton grabbed the book from the fellow’s paws. “Let me see that.” In the next moment his jaw fell open in sheer astonishment. “Why,” he blurted, “this debt is over four years old!”

“No foolin’,” said the leering collector.

“And I’ve paid, that is, he’s paid—”

“You’ve paid, Brown. Don’t give me none of that he business,” the collector corrected.

“I’ve paid the Acme Loan Company well over four hundred dollars in that time!” finished the astounded Mr. Throckmorton.

“So what?” said the collector, scratching his scraggly moustache nonchalantly.

“That’s twice the amount originally borrowed! Which amounts to nothing more or less than sheer banditry!” stormed Mr. Throckmorton.

“Look,” said the collector with feigned boredom, “are yuh gonna pay up yer installment, or aren’t yuh? Make up yer mind, Brown. If yuh don’t pay, we’ll take the matter up wit yer boss!”

John Brown would have trembled under such circumstances. But Thaddeus Throckmorton was not used to trembling under any circumstances. Mr. Throckmorton’s personality directed. John Brown’s body acted. In the next several minutes the patrons of Throckmorton’s Department Store were amazed to see a drab, somewhat moth-eaten little salesman ushering a terrified and bewildered collector out of the premises by the scruff of the neck.

“And if I see you around here again,” bellowed Throckmorton with a well-directed kick at the collector’s nether extremities, “I’ll have you put in jail!” Having concluded an unpleasant matter, Mr. Throckmorton rubbed John Brown’s hands together with some degree of satisfaction, turned and retraced his steps to the washing machine section.

“Now to get down to work,” he muttered, striding onto the display floor...

“Now to get down to work,” said the small, white-haired, sour little man at the head of the gleaming conference table. John Brown, seated at the opposite end of the table, shivered apprehensively. The rasping voice of the white-haired gentleman had jerked him back to reality. For the past hour he had wandered aimlessly about the spacious offices of Thaddeus Throckmorton in a sort of semi-stupor, half-dazedly, half-frantically trying to figure out a solution to his dilemma. But only two solutions had offered themselves — one to confess the incredible body-swapping of the past hours, the other to commit suicide. The first was out of the question, and he lacked the courage for the second.

And now, somehow, he found himself sitting at the ringside of his own Waterloo. The sour little gentleman, Pearson, president of the bank, was looking balefully at John Brown, letting the silence of the room weave into a cold blanket around him. At length he spoke.

“Throckmorton, I, for one, have had about enough of your eternal twaddle. Your bullying, blustering stupidity, your confounded unreasonable egotism, have just about bankrupted this store.”

“But—” protested Mr. Brown.

“Never mind the ‘buts,’ ” Pearson continued acidly. “You’re not bullying us any longer. Your high-handed methods and your refusal to take advice are the reasons why we won’t trust you with another cent of our money.”

In all of John Brown’s forty-three years of existence he had never bullied anyone. In fact it had never even occurred to him to bully anyone. He felt he was being unfairly treated. Instinct brought him to his feet, opened his mouth in protest.

Mr. Pearson sensed the beginning of another Throckmorton tantrum. He was determined to nip it in the bud. “Sit down,” he bellowed. “I have the floor!”

Everyone in the room, including Mr. Pearson, was amazed to see the portly, frock-coated figure slump meekly into his chair. Mr. Pearson was surprised and gratified by the easy victory. In a kindlier tone he continued:

“After all, Thaddeus, you’ve no one to blame but yourself. If you had taken our advice, as well as our loans, the last two times, you wouldn’t find yourself with your back against the wall now. Under the circumstances, we can’t renew the loan.” Mr. Pearson sat down with an air of finality.

Everyone in the room regarded the frock-coated figure of the department store owner half-fearfully, half-expectantly. It had never been the nature of Thaddeus Throckmorton to take a blow sitting down. Seconds ticked into a minute, and still there was silence.

Mr. Pearson cleared his throat. “Well?”

Every eye in the room was fixed on John Brown as he rose to reply. “You are quite right,” he said simply, resuming his seat.

If he had ridden into the room naked on a tricycle, John Brown could not have created a greater furor. Out of the sudden tumult and babble of voices, Mr. Pearson’s thin cry for order was heard. When the room had at last quieted, the white-haired little banker spoke.

“Did I — did I hear you rightly, Thaddeus?” There was shocked astonishment in Pearson’s voice. “Do you actually agree with us?”

The portly figure rose again. “I not only agree with you, I might add to your statements. Thaddeus Throckmorton — that is to say the old Thaddeus Throckmorton — was also an overbearing, asinine know-nothing.” John Brown then resumed his seat, feeling a certain vicious satisfaction in having so humbled the body of the man who had been his overlord for eighteen years. Come what may, he had gotten even with Thaddeus Throckmorton.

Mr. Pearson’s voice was unsteady as he spoke. “This is incredible. If you can stand before us, Thaddeus, and openly admit your shortcomings, you’re a better man than any of us had imagined.” There were murmurs of assent throughout the group. “It’s obvious that you’ve changed, how or why is unimportant. The fact that you have, is all that counts.”

There was a general murmuring of assent, with only a few protesting voices breaking through. When Pearson resumed, Mr. Brown was stunned by the drastic reversal of fortune. It was so unexpected — so impossible — he couldn’t believe his ears. “We had made up our minds not to advance a nickel to the old Thaddeus Throckmorton, but the situation is drastically reversed. We’ll give you your loan!”

There was a brief, dramatic silence, immediately followed by a wild burst of applause. Then the directors were surrounding John Brown, slapping him on the back, pumping his hand. He struggled to his feet, dazed. Out of the sea of beaming faces swimming in front of him, he saw Mr. Pearson. “Congratulations, Thaddeus. Whatever made you change so?” the banker smiled.

“I wish I knew,” said John Brown mournfully. “I only wish I knew!”