Pitcher,confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell,broker,allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at half past nine in company with his young lady stenographer.With a snappy “Good-morning,Pitcher,”Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it,and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.

The young lady had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year.She was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic.She forewent the pomp of the alluring pompadour.She wore no chains,bracelets or lockets.She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon.Her dress was grey and plain,but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion.In her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw.On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant.Her eyes were dreamily bright,her cheeks genuine peachblow,her expression a happy one,tinged with reminiscence.

Pitcher,still mildly curious,noticed a difference in her ways this morning.Instead of going straight into the adjoining room,where her desk was,she lingered,slightly irresolute,in the outer office.Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk,near enough for him to be aware of her presence.

The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man;it was a busy New York broker,moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs.

“Well—what is it?Anything?”asked Maxwell sharply.His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk.His keen grey eye,impersonal and brusque,flashed upon her half impatiently.

“Nothing,”answered the stenographer,moving away with a little smile.

“Mr.Pitcher,”she said to the confidential clerk,“did Mr.Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?”

“He did,”answered Pitcher.“He told me to get another one.I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning.It's 9.45.o'clock,and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet.”

“I will do the work as usual,then,”said the young lady,“until some one comes to fill the place.”And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place.

He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology.The poet sings of the “crowded hour of glorious life.”The broker's hour is not only crowded,but the minutes and seconds are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms.

And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day.The ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape,the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing.Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing,jovially,sharply,viciously,excitedly.Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams.The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm.Even Pitcher's face relaxed into something resembling animation.

On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes,and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker's offices.Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe dancer.He jumped from ticker to'phone,from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin.

In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips,an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts,ending near the floor with a silver heart.There was a self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories;and Pitcher was there to construe her.

“Lady from the Stenographer's Agency to see about the position,”said Pitcher.Maxwell turned half around,with his hands full of papers and ticker tape.

“What position?”he asked,with a frown.

“Position of stenographer,”said Pitcher.“You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning.”

“You are losing your mind,Pitcher,”said Maxwell.“Why should I have given you any such instructions?Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here.The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it.There's no place open here,madam.Countermand that order with the agency,Pitcher,and don't bring any more of'em in here.”

The silver heart left the office,swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed.Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the “old man” seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.

The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster.On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell's customers were heavy investors.Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows.Some of his own holdings were imperilled,and the man was working like some high-geared,delicate,strong machine—strung to full tension,going at full speed,accurate,never hesitating,with the proper word and decision and act ready and prompt as clockwork.Stocks and bonds,loans and mortgages,margins and securities—here was a world of finance,and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.

When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar.

Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and memoranda,with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead.His window was open,for the beloved janitress Spring had turned on a little warmth through the waking registers of the earth.

And through the window came a wandering—perhaps a lost—odour—a delicate,sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable.For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie;it was her own,and hers only.

The odour brought her vividly,almost tangibly before him.The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck.And she was in the next room—twenty steps away.

“By George,I'll do it now,”said Maxwell,half aloud.“I'll ask her now.I wonder I didn't do it long ago.”

He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover.He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.

She looked up at him with a smile.A soft pink crept over her cheek,and her eyes were kind and frank.Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk.He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.

“Miss Leslie,”he began hurriedly,“I have but a moment to spare.I want to say something in that moment.Will you he my wife?I haven't had time to make love to you in the ordinary way,but I really do love you.Talk quick,please—those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific.”

“Oh,what are you talking about?”exclaimed the young lady.She rose to her feet and gazed upon him,round-eyed.

“Don't you understand?”said Maxwell,restively.“I want you to marry me.I love you,Miss Leslie.I wanted to tell you,and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit.They're calling me for the ‘phone’ now.Tell'em to wait a minute,Pitcher.Won't you,Miss Leslie?”

The stenographer acted very queerly.At first she seemed overcome with amazement;then tears flowed from her wondering eyes;and then she smiled sunnily through them,and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker's neck.

“I know now,”she said,softly.“It's this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time.I was frightened at first.Don't you remember,Harvey?We were married last evening at 8 o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner.”

忙碌經紀人的浪漫史

九點半，在年輕女速記員的陪同下，證券經紀人哈維·麥克斯韋爾如履春風般走進了公司。機要秘書皮徹一向毫無表情的面孔不禁閃過了一絲好奇和詫異。

馬克斯韋爾拋下一句“早上好，皮徹”，直奔辦公桌，匆忙得像要一躍而過，一頭扎進桌子上那一大堆等著他處理的信件和電報里。

那位年輕女郎給麥克斯韋爾當速記員已有一年了。她美艷動人，絕不是三言兩語所能描繪。她一改華麗誘人的高卷式發型，從不佩戴項鏈、手鐲或心形項墜。她臉上沒有打算受邀外出進餐的神情。盡管灰色套裝素凈簡潔，但恰如其分地勾勒出她動人的身材。黑色典雅的無邊圓帽上飾著金剛鸚鵡金綠色的翅羽。今天早上，她溫婉嬌羞，光彩照人，一雙眼睛如流螢般迷離，兩頰粉若桃花，一臉幸福，沉浸在回味之中。

皮徹發現她今天神態舉止異常，越發不解。她沒有徑直走進隔間——那里放著她的辦公桌，而是有些遲疑地在外間徘徊。她一度挪到麥克斯維爾的辦公桌旁，近得足以讓他意識到她的存在。

坐在辦公桌前的工作狂已不再是一個男人，而是一個忙碌的紐約證券經紀人，一臺被隆隆作響的輪子和上了勁的彈簧驅動的機器。

“嗯，怎么回事？有事嗎？”麥克斯韋爾問，語氣尖刻。鋪開的信紙就像一層白雪覆蓋在擁擠的桌子上。他銳利的灰藍色眼睛冷漠無情，不耐煩地掃了她一眼。

“沒什么。”速記員答道，笑靨輕輕地飄走了。

“皮徹先生，”她問機要秘書，“麥克斯韋爾先生昨天有沒有提過另雇一名速記員的事兒？”

“提過，”皮徹回答說，“他吩咐我另找一個。昨天下午，我通知了職業介紹所，讓他們今天上午送幾個像樣的來面試。現在已經九點四十五了，還沒見哪個戴闊邊帽或嚼口香糖的菠蘿頭露面。”

“那我還是照常工作好了，”年輕女郎說，“等有人替補再說。”說完她馬上走到自己的辦公桌邊，在老地方掛起那頂飾有金剛鸚鵡金綠色翅羽的黑色無邊帽。

不論哪個人類學家質疑曼哈頓經紀人在交易高峰期時的忙碌，那么他的職業生涯就不會那么完美。有詩人贊頌“忙碌鑄就輝煌人生”。經紀人的時間不僅每個小時都被排得滿滿的，而且每分每秒都被拴牢套死，分派前前后后的事務。

今天又是哈維·麥克斯韋爾的忙碌日。行情收錄器迅速轉動，斷斷續續吐出一卷一卷的紙，臺式電話響個不停。人群開始涌入辦公室，隔著欄桿沖他叫嚷，神情各異，有的和顏悅色，有的尖聲刻薄，有的痛不欲生，有的激動萬分。信童拿著電話留言和電報跑進跑出。辦公室里職員們忙得來回躥動，好似遭遇暴風雨的水手一般。連皮徹的臉也不再僵硬，有了些生氣。

證券交易所里風云變幻，時而颶風、山崩、暴雪，時而冰川解體、火山爆發；這些自然界的劇變在經紀人辦公室的微觀世界里重復上演。麥克斯韋爾把椅子猛地推到墻邊，如踢踏舞演員般敏捷地處理著業務。他穿梭于收錄機和電話、辦公桌和門之間，機敏干練，就像訓練有素的滑稽小丑。

正處于壓力持續增長、形勢越加嚴重的節骨眼上，經紀人猛然注意到有那么一叢金色劉海從顫巍巍的天鵝絨和鴕鳥毛飾物下高高卷起，一件仿海豹皮敞篷，一串大如胡桃的珍珠項鏈，下端墜著一顆銀質心形項墜，幾乎都要貼著地面了。這套行頭都與一位沉著冷靜的年輕女士有關，皮徹正在那引薦她。

“這位女士是速記員介紹所推薦來應聘的。”皮徹說。

麥克斯韋爾側過身，滿手都是文件和行情紙帶。

“應聘什么職位？”他皺起眉頭問。

“速記員職位，”皮徹說，“昨天您吩咐我致電給他們，讓他們今天上午送一個過來。”

“你昏頭了？”麥克斯韋爾說，“我怎么會給你這樣的指示呢？萊斯利小姐在職這一年表現無可挑剔。只要她愿意留下，這個位置就是她的。女士，這里沒有職位空缺。皮徹，通知事務所，取消招聘計劃，別再帶人進來了。”

“銀項墜”離開了辦公室。一路上她憤憤不平，只顧生氣離開，把辦公桌椅碰得乒乓作響。皮徹忙里偷閑跟簿記員調侃道：“頭兒的世俗記性一天比一天差嘍。”

交易量和交易頻率不斷攀升加快。在證券交易區，他們正在注巨資哄抬/猛砸幾支由麥克斯維爾客戶巨額投資的股票。收進和拋出的單據來來去去，如飛燕一般。他自己持有的幾支股票也岌岌可危。這個男人工作起來如同一臺高速精確運轉的強大機器——神經繃緊、全力以赴、精準無誤、堅決果斷、用詞準確、決策無誤、步步為營、出手及時，像時鐘般牢靠。股票、證券、貸款、抵押、保證金、債券——這是一個金融世界，世間的人情冷暖、自然天性在這里沒有立足之地。

午餐時間臨近，喧嚷混亂的氣氛才稍稍平息了下來。

麥克斯韋爾站在辦公桌邊，手里塞滿了電報和買賣契約，右耳后夾了一支鋼筆，幾撮頭發散落在前額之上。辦公室的窗敞開著，因為可愛的春神已經吹來一陣暖意，使大地開始復蘇。

窗外一陣幽香若隱若現飄然而入，是丁香淡淡的甜味，它也許讓這位經紀人一時失了神兒。因為這香味是屬于萊斯利小姐的，是她特有的氣息，也只有她的氣息。

這香味讓她化影眼前，栩栩如生，幾乎觸手可及。金融世界突然衰變成一粒塵土。而她就在隔壁，近在咫尺。

“天哪，我現在就得去，”麥克斯韋爾低聲說道，“我現在就去跟她說。怎么我沒早點兒想起？”

他箭步跑進辦公室隔間，像急于買回賣空出去的股票一般，撲到速記員辦公桌上。

她抬起頭，沖他莞爾一笑，兩頰泛起一絲紅暈，一雙明眸溫柔而真誠。麥克斯韋爾一只胳膊撐在桌上，手里還攥著微微亂顫的文件，鋼筆依然夾在耳后。

“萊斯利小姐，”他匆匆開口說道，“我沒有多少時間，趁這會兒我想跟你說一件重要事情。你愿意做我的妻子嗎？我沒有時間以常人的方式向你求愛，但我真心愛你。請快回答我。那幫人正聯手搶購太平洋聯盟的股票了。”

“噢，你在說什么？”年輕女郎驚叫道。她起身站立，盯著他，雙目圓睜。

“你不明白嗎？”麥克斯韋爾倔強地說。“我要你嫁給我。我愛你，萊斯利小姐。我早想告訴你，情況稍一好轉，我得空就過來了。他們這會兒又找我接電話了。皮徹，讓他們稍等。答應我好嗎，萊斯利小姐？”

速記員舉動非常奇怪。起初，她好像萬分驚訝；隨后，淚水又涌出了她驚奇的眼睛；接著，淚眼又發出了歡笑的光芒；最后，她伸出一只胳膊柔情地摟住了經紀人的脖子。

“現在我明白了，”她柔聲說道，“是這討厭的生意讓你忘了其他所有的事兒。剛才我嚇壞了。你不記得了嗎，哈維？昨晚八點，我們在拐角處小教堂結婚了。”