Butch

By Gregory Clark, October 31, 1953.

The thing to do, when the tough young son of a tough old friend (now departed) comes to you for advice and help with regard to getting a job, is to give him a letter of introduction to the toughest old cuss you know.

To spare the innocent, as they say in the radio dramas, I will have to employ false names in this little item. We will call the young fellow Butch, and the tough old cuss will be Andrew McGurgle, president, general manager and secretary-treasurer of the firm of A. McGurgle & Co., general contractors.

When this young Butch opened my office door, I knew him instantly, though I had never heard of him before. He was the son of an old, old friend who was one of the most hard-boiled men I have ever known. He had graduated in engineering last spring; spent the summer growing muscles up in the Labrador iron-mine construction job; and he said his father, before he died, had mentioned me as a possible contact if he ever needed help in getting a job.

I hastily sized Butch up. He had the build of a shorthorn bull and the mild and gentle countenance of a Jersey heifer. Some of the darnedest men I have ever known had that Jersey-heifer look. I decided not to inflict Butch on any of my more delicate acquaintances; and my thoughts naturally turned to A. McGurgle & Co., general contractors.

I wrote Butch a nice letter to Andy. Butch walked out of my office and went to the parking lot where he had left his jalopy. He had about 40 blocks to drive out to the office and yards of McGurgle & Co. But he had not driven two blocks, in this populous city of a million people, before he almost ran down an elderly man who was defying the red light and striding across Butch’s right of way on the green light. Butch tramped on his brakes. The pedestrian was a heavy-built, brindled character with a protruding jaw. He and Butch engaged in a few well-chosen words. They were about evenly matched. I understand they turned the air bright blue all over the intersection. Butch didn’t know it, but he was addressing A. McGurgle, president, etc., etc., of A. McGurgle & Co.

He drove out to the plant and had to wait some little time, chatting with Mr. McGurgle’s secretary. Like all construction-company presidents, Andy always comes in the back door of his office. His secretary took my letter in. A moment later, Butch was summoned into the presence.

Ten minutes later, I had a telephone call.

“Lightning rods!” bellowed the voice of my old fishing friend, Andy McGurgle.

“Which?” I exclaimed.

“Lightning rods!” repeated Andy violently. “Who the Sam Hill was this crazy young chump you sent me with this letter of introduction? What would I want with lightning rods on my summer home? You know I haven’t got any summer home…”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I broke in. “What’s all this stuff about lightning rods?”

“Didn’t you send me this young punk So-and-So with a letter of introduction?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “But he doesn’t sell lightning rods. I sent him to you to see if you could give him a job. I knew his dad well, a great guy. This boy graduated last spring…”

“I got all that here in the letter,” said Andy. “But you don’t mention anything about a job!”

And suddenly Andy McGurgle began to howl. He whooped and hooted and I could hear him banging his desk. When he recovered, he said:

“I thought I recognized this kid! I was just coming out from lunch at the club at noon today and was walking across the street when a car almost ran me down. A car driven by as bull-headed and bad-tempered a young punk as I ever saw. The names he called me, Greg! Why, I never heard such language…”

“Oh, yeah?” I said.

“It’s the same kid!” yelled Andy McGurgle. “Half an hour later, he comes in here with your letter! He figured I recognized him. So he goes into this act about selling me lightning rods. Look, Greg! Where do I find this boy?”

Butch had left me his telephone number. I called and left a message. About 4 P.M. a rather subdued Butch called me. I asked him how he had got along with Mr. McGurgie. Not very good, he confessed. And then he told me the whole story of nearly running down an old fathead crossing against the red light; his arrival at the McGurgle plant; and his awful moment on being ushered into the old boy’s presence.

“I figured it was hopeless,” said Butch.

“What made you think of lightning rods?” I asked.

“Well, when I stood there in front of him,” he said, “I felt a terrible need of lightning rods sticking up all over me. So I grabbed the first out that offered. I told him I was a lightning-rod salesman and went into a big act about selling him lightning rods for his summer home…”

Butch went out right away, and at 5 PM. was being shown over the McGurgle plant by his new and enthusiastic employer.