Free Anybody Can Do Anything by Betty MacDonald Page B

wondered how I would say good-bye to Mr. Chalmers. For, in spite of his holding me personally responsible for the depression, I was fond of him, knew that his job had been in the nature of his last stand and worried about what was to become of him.
    The closing of Mr. Webster’s office meant merely that Webster would be on his own instead of working for a big corporation, and we had celebrated the occasion with club sandwiches and champagne. I didn’t expect anything like that from Chalmers, who had chosen to ignore the repeated warnings from the lumbermen or notice the fact that all the office force but me had left for other jobs, but I did expect him, that last day, to admit that it was all over.
    He didn’t though. At ten-thirty he came slamming and banging into the office, rang the buzzer furiously and demanded that I call Joe the bootlegger and order him a case of Canadian Club. Old Custer was all alone but he was still commanding, still shooting.
    I dialed Joe’s number and wondered if being out of business would affect our credit. Joe’s wife answered. I asked for Joe. She said, “He can’t come to the phone. He’s dead.” I said that I was very sorry and she said, “That’s okay, honey, we all gotta go sometime. What did you wish?” I said, “I want to order a case of Canadian Club.” She said, “All we got now, honey, is the alcohol and the labels.” I wondered if she also had the sand and seaweed with which Joe used to adorn his bottles and offer as final proof that it was the real stuff brought from Canada by water. I told her that I’d talk to Chalmers and call her back and she said, “O.K., honey, I’ll be here all day.”
    I told Chalmers about Joe and he said, “Humph!” put on his hat and left and, though I waited and waited, he never came back. At a little after one I took my package of personal belongings and went home. I never saw Mr. Chalmers again. I called his club and left word for him to call me but he didn’t and when I called again I learned he had checked out and left no forwarding address. Lumber was over.

5: “Nobody’s Too Dull or Too Short for My Sister”
     
    Most females between the ages of thirteen and forty-five feel that being caught at home dateless, especially on a Friday or Saturday night, is a shameful thing like having athlete’s foot. I used to harbor the same silly notion and many’s the lie I’ve told to anyone tactless enough to call up at nine-thirty and ask me what I was doing. “What am I doing?” I’d say, brushing the fudge crumbs off the front of my pajamas and marking the place in my book. “Oh, just sitting here sipping champagne and smoking opium. My date had trouble with his car.”
    Which is why, now that I’ve had time to heal, I’m really grateful to Mary for deciding that along with making me self-supporting, she would use me as a proving ground for dates.
    The first time, however, that I heard Mary, who has a great love for people, any people, and is not at all critical, which qualities though laudable in a friend are perfectly awful in a matchmaker, say, “I can’t go but Betty will,” I protested.
    Mother said, “Remember, Betsy, a rolling stone . . .” Mary, always quick to seize an opportunity, repeated, “Yes, remember a rolling stone.” Only I could tell, after just a few dates, that her real interpretation of the old saying was,“Come out from under that stone and no matter how mossy, you’re a date for Betty.”
    As “I can’t go but Betty will” became Mary’s stock answer to any phone call, so “Oh, please God, not him!” was my usual reaction.
    Mary launched my business and social career the same day. The business career with mining, the social career with Worthington Reed, who when he called and asked Mary to lunch was told, “I’ve already got a date but you can take my sister, Betty.” I was surprised and terribly thrilled when, just before twelve, Worthington appeared in a big wrinkled tweed suit,