Ralph Compton - Bluff City

“I am your employer and will do as I please.”

“You are also my uncle, and I will kick you in the shins if you ever do it again.” Melanie set down the parcel she was carrying and absently swiped at a stray bang. “Now then, do you want the details of the tunnel collapse or would you rather my morning be wasted?”

The man with the muttonchops noticed the young man in the brown suit and came over to a counter cluttered with a stack of newspapers, pencils, pens, ink, loose sheets of paper, and a Bible. “You must excuse my niece. Somewhere or other she got it into her head that the world must adjust its schedule to her and not the other way around.”

“Sir?” The young man smiled sheepishly.

The blonde put her hands on her shapely hips. “How dare you carp about me to a complete stranger?”

“I can remedy that.” Her uncle thrust out an ink-stained hand. “Jerome Stanley, at your service. This humble enterprise happens to be mine.”

The young man shook.

“And you?” Stanley said.

“Me what?”

“Your name, sir. Your name. You do have one, I would imagine.”

A look of bewilderment came over the young man. “Of course I do.”

“Then what would it be, if you do not mind my prying?”

“Clay, sir. My name is Clay.”

Jerome Stanley waited, then asked, “Would that be the first or the last?”

“What? Oh.” The young man scanned the counter and his gaze fixed on one object in particular. “Adams. My name is Clay Adams.”

“There, now,” Stanley said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? And what can we do for you, Clay Adams?”

“I need a job,” Clay Adams said. “I figured I would start here at the newspaper office.”

“An excellent choice. We run a list of jobs wanted in the Courier. If you can part with five cents, I will sell you a copy of the latest edition.”

“No. I mean I wanted to apply here,” Clay Adams said.

Melanie had sat at a desk and was rummaging in a drawer. She did not appear to be listening, but suddenly she was on her feet, saying, “We do need someone at the counter, Uncle Jerome. Betsy had to quit on account of the baby.”

“What?” Stanley said. “Oh. Yes. I forgot. But I usually hire a woman for that. It is tedious work, hardly befitting a strapping young man like Mr. Adams, here.”

“Why don’t we let him be the judge of that?” Melanie rebutted. “Ask him.”

Stanley glanced from her to Clay Adams and back again. “Ah. As you wish. Would you be interested in a job at the Courier, Mr. Adams? Five dollars a week to start. Later, if you show aptitude, you could move up to typesetter, or perhaps journalist if you are as adventurous as my niece.”

“It sounds suitable,” Clay said.

“Can you read and write?”

“Tolerably. My ma taught me. It got so I could read from the Bible without having to say the words out loud. But my writing is more chicken scratch than cursive.”

Jerome Stanley chuckled. “You should see mine. My niece writes impeccably, but then she prides herself on doing everything impeccably. It comes from being a natural show-off.”

Melanie flushed and said, “Remember what I said about your shins, Uncle.”

Ignoring her, Stanley said to Clay, “How is your patience? Do you have a little or a lot?”

“Sir?”

“The counterman has to deal with idiots and chuckleheads on a daily basis. Such as the gent who was in here earlier wanting us to do a story about his pet rat. Or the woman yesterday who wanted me to write an editorial proposing we ban pigs and hogs from the city streets.”

“I reckon I can tolerate fools as well as the next man,” Clay Adams said.

“Very well, then. I will ask you again. Are you interested in the job? My niece will teach you everything you need to know.”

“I’ll what?”

“Yes, I would like the job,” Clay Adams said. “I only hope I can live up to your trust in me.”

Stanley’s brown eyes crinkled with amusement. “Son, it’s not like you will be guarding a bank. You will be taking ads and subscriptions, and doing the lost and found; those sorts of things.”

“And you expect me to show him what to do?” Melanie asked. “On top of all the other responsibilities I have?”

“Oh, my,” Jerome Stanley said. “What was I thinking? It should take you all of fifteen minutes. We have hours yet before the next edition goes to press, so you have ample time to write your report on the cave-in.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Uncle.”

Stanley winked at Clay Adams. “When she is polite like that, it usually means she is about to unsheathe her claws. I will take that as a hint to hie me elsewhere and leave you in her razor-sharp hands.” He merrily made for a Washington Hand Press.

Clay laughed, earning a pointed glare from Melanie Stanley. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But your uncle is a hoot.”

“If by that you mean a wise old owl, that he is. He is also the most scrupulously honest man I have ever known.”

“Honesty means a lot to you, does it, ma’am?”

“I cannot abide deceit, Mr. Adams. Which explains why I ferret it out for a living. And why I respect honesty more than any other trait.” Melanie looked at him. “Are you honest by nature, Mr. Adams?”

“I like to think so, ma’am.”

“That’s nice to hear. Otherwise we would not get along. And please stop calling me ‘ma’am.’ It makes me sound old.”

“If you will call me Clay instead of Mr. Adams, I will call you Miss Stanley instead of ma’am.”

“We’ve only just met and you encourage such familiarity? Why, Mr. Adams, I am scandalized.”

Now it was Clay who blushed. “If I have offended you in any way, ma’am, I mean, if I have hurt your feelings somehow, Miss Stanley, I mean—”

“Goodness gracious,” she interrupted. “Do you always stutter so? I was teasing, Mr. Adams. Or shall I call you Clay? You can call me Melanie.” She opened the gate for him. “Now that you are an employee, you are entitled to come on through.”

Clay took a step, and stopped.

“What is the matter? Second thoughts?”

“No, ma—No, Melanie. It’s just I have never had a woman hold a door for me before. Even if it is a little bitty one with slats.”

Melanie laughed and placed her hand on his arm. “I get it now. You are doing this to entertain me. I must say, your impression of a yokel is remarkable.”

Clay Adams wrung his derby and said, “I aim to please you.”

While the rest of the staff went about their usual routine, the blond chronicler showed the new clerk how to go about his own. Which forms to use. Where the pencil sharpener was kept. Where the ink was stored. How to determine the rates for a given advertisement. Where to file subscriptions.

At length Melanie glanced at the clock on the wall above her uncle’s desk. “Mercy me. Fifteen minutes, he said, and I’ve been at this over an hour. How time does fly.”

“I didn’t mean to keep you from your work,” Clay said.

“It’s all right. I can still file my report on the cave-in at the Weaver mine. A new shaft they were digging collapsed and two workers were hurt. One will be on crutches for a while. Fortunately no one was killed.”

“How long have you worked at this?” Clay asked.

“Here? Or elsewhere? I got my start in St. Louis. When Uncle Stanley launched the Courier, he sent for me. That was not quite a year ago.”

Clay’s blue eyes grew thoughtful. “Then you must know all there is to know about this part of the country.”

“I would not go that far. But yes, I suppose I am up to date on all that has happened since I arrived.”

“That must be a considerable lot,” Clay said. “I would love to talk to you about it. Is there any chance I can take you to supper later? That is, if you don’t have previous plans.”