"SEND FOR TIMKINSON."

Cromwell Argus, Volume LXI, Issue 3159, 20 April 1931, Page 2

"SEND FOR TIMKINSON."

WRENCHING COQB OUT OF THE

MACHINE.

At Wedworth and Wiggs Mr. James j Tlmkinson was like the letter E in the alphabet. He bobbed up so often, here and there, and was used so much that nobody noticed him, or, at any rate, noticed his usefulness. "Send for Timkinson!" was sure to be somebody's suggestion if anything cropped up which was fairly complicated, or pernaps the address of an old customer, belonging to the past, was needed quickly. Whatever the matter might be, it was surprising how they fell back instinctively on grey-haired Timkinson. He had grown grey in the service of Wedwortb and Wiggs, had James, having been with the firm for more years than he cared to remember. Thinking of all those years made him realise that the days of his youth were now very far behind him. He could recall the time when all the shirts which were turned out by Wedworth and Wiggs had been made on just six machines, and to-day they had more than a hundred. Close on two hundred! "Send for Timkinson!" James would dutifully leave whatever task he was engaged in at the moment, and appear, meek and willing, at the door of the office, or wareroom, in which the trouble had arisen. "That last order which went to Blank Brothers, Timkinson! Of what was it composed?" And he would ponder for a moment, perhaps scratch his grey locks absentmindedly, then clear the air effectively.

"Oh, yes! White-ground Oxfords, quality B2!" That was Timkinson. He Would then be dismissed with a curt nod. Nobody ever seemed to think of thanking Timkinson for anything he did. They took him for granted, like the time indicated by the big, round-faced clock on the wall of the general office. That clock was a necessary piece of furniture, supplying a need ... so was this man, Timkinson. They wouldn't dream of thanking the clock, and so they never thanked Timkinson. Not that he ever expected appreciation or gratitude; Good Heavens, no! It was Timkinson who looked grateful when they used him to settle some knotty problem in connection with the business; he always appeared indebted to somebody for noticing his existence. Very kind of them! he seemed to be thinking behind that lengthening forehead of his. He turned up one morning without his moustache. It was his birthday. but he hadn't shaved his upper lip to celebrate the event. Timkinson had. felt suddenly old that morning when he realised the number of years he had been on the earth. Youth flaunted itself at his thin elbows daily at Wedworth and Wiggs, and Timkinson sensed its hostility to age. So he had sbaved his upper lip of the grey bushiness and was delighted with the change. . . . But nobody appeared to see any difference. To them he was still Timkinson, the grey-headed chap who was so confoundedly useful to dig up now and then. There came a day when Wiggs, the surviving partner of the firm,.decided that he himself was now entitled to a rest, and a wealthy syndicate which was on the lookout for old established businesses like this one, lost no time in coming to terms, and Wedworth and Wiggs became an integral part of "Worldwide Shirts Company." Outwardly, at first, there was no change. The big, round clock on the wall of the general office —and Timkinson —still functioned in their own particular spheres . . But one morning a couple of sharp-featured men brought a chill to the air in the building. "The business is a good one," one was heard to say, "but it's going to be even better. Let's overhaul the staff first."

"Sure!" agreed the other. "We must look after the shareholders, and if any economy ..." They proceeded to scan the stafflist, and one suddenly pointed to a name.

"Fifty years old, and not a departmental head," he whispered. "We must give young blood its chance." hissed the other. "He'll have to go. . -. . What's the name?" They peered closer, then the first man turned to the manager at his elbow.

"Send for —er —Timkinson. . . . . That's the name .. . Timkinson. .." So they sent for Timkinson

He came, as he had been coming through the years. Grey and uneasy he looked this time.

"You sent for me, gentlemen," he said meekly. "My name is Timkinson."

They administered the sentence a* tactfully as they could. Huge overhead expenses; an army of trusting shareholders; a campaign of economy; their unpleasant duty . . . and so on, but Timkinson only grasped the opening words. The rest came to his ears as a confused jumble.

"Very well, gentlemen," he contrived to say, blinking through the mist which had suddenly filled the office; "I understand you."

Presently he was walking down the eight stone steps which fronted the premises of Wedworth and Wiggs. Steps down to Nowhere they seemed to Timkinson just then. . . . What had happened? . . . Somebody—the new people—had been very fair to him.

... A month's wages all at once. . . . In lieu of notice, he remembered the tall fellow saying. Very kind of them, it was, and he ought to be grateful! , Army of shareholders expecting good dividends. . . , He had caught that also. It was two months later that old Wiggs turned on his bed of sickness to greet the visitor. "I thought I'd left the business be-

hind me for good," he protested, a trifle piqued, "but carry onj" "I'm sincerely sorry to And you indisposed, Mr. Wiggs," began the visitor, seating himself by the bed. "You remember me, of course?" The sick man nodded. "Yes. I dealt with you mainly when I sold my business to "World-wide Shirts.' "

"That's it, Mr. Wiggs. The mouthpiece, so to speak! And now I've been asked to pester you again. We believe that your vast experience in connection with your establishment will enable you to put your finger on the trouble."

"What trouble?" demanded Wiggs, suddenly interested. "The business isn't half what it used to be in your day, Mr. Wiggs. Everything seems to be loosening, if you follow my meaning. Disjointed. Not up to the old standard by a long chalk! . . . And we've practically the same staff. ..."

"Practically?" snapped Wiggs. "Who did you get rid of, may I ask?" The visitor referred to a- notebook, then:

"Only three of them, rather old people, you know. Smith, Petergann, and a fellow named Timkinson."

"Thought so!" growled Wiggs angrily. "You played ducks and drakes with the staff as soon as my back was turned! No wonder things are not as they might be when you wrench cogs out of the machine!" "Then what do you advise us to do, Mr. Wiggs?" asked tiie visitor, jagerly, leaning forward. "Do!" echoed Wiggs heatedly.

Why, leave a sick man to his books md the view from the windov here, ?lear out and back to the business, md send for Timkinson!"

"Timkinson?" the visitor repeated, making sure. "That's what I said!" snapped Mr. Wiggs. So they sent for Timkinson. And he came, as usual, meek and willing.