Battle Ax The door swung open slightly to allow Mr. Mogley to see into the outer office. by Marjorie Hill "My mama done tole me ..." The sound of soft and rhythmic singing accompanied by restrained taps of a high heel seeped in through the partially open door to the outer office, and the corners of George Mogley's mouth drooped even farther downward.. "That girl!" he muttered, reaching for his pencil across the broad, highly polished desk. He made a few notations on the document before him and continued his perusal of the bulky law book on the side table. "Whereas," he whispered to himself in deep concentration, "the party of the third part as hereinbefore stated ..." With the sudden realization that he was straining to hear the girl outside and chanting the words of the contact with her tune, he rose from his thickly padded chair and tramped across the soft gray carpet to shut the door. As he sat back in his chair he longed again, as he had often during the past week, for the presence of Letty Simpson. There was a secretary, he thought. Perfect absolutely perfect. As he remembered her, her dark, severe suits and flat heels seemed only sensible in comparison with the soft, feminine dresses and high heels of his new employee, and Letty's plain face, which he had difficulty in picturing in his mind, seemed much more suitable for an office than the pretty one of Beth Porter. Of course Miss Porter's work was satisfactory so far. It was merely that her her his lawyer's mind groped for the right word perhaps it was her liveliness that was disturbing. At any rate if he decided to let her go he could do so in a few days at the end of the probationary period required by the Leonard School of Business. So she had been their star pupil! It seemed impossible a frivolous little blonde such as she could not have much in the way of brains. Still she seemed intelligent enough and was able to follow instructions . . . He interrupted the argument with himself and went back to his work. The inter-office telephone buzzed and he picked it up to hear a soft and melodious voice say, "Mr. Johnson would like to see you, Mr. Mogley." "Send him in," he snapped. That voice was another thing it just was not businesslike. Why, Miss Simpson always ... The door marked "Private" opened and Fred Johnson, one of his best clients and a good friend, breezed into the room. When the exchanging of the usual greetings was over, Fred grinned and a twinkle came to his eye. Teasing his somewhat pompous friend was one of his greatest pleasures. "Say, George, you've been holding out on me. Where did you get that luscious brown-eyed blonde?" he asked, nodding his head toward the outer office, "and how did you manage to get rid of the battle-ax? I thought she was a permanent fixture around here." George cleared his throat. Miss Simpson had been their only source of disagreement during the years they had been business associates. He had long since resigned himself to hearing Fred call her a battle-ax. "Miss Simpson was forced to leave by the illness of her mother," he announced, adding as though it were of little importance, "The girl outside is Miss Porter, my new secretary." "Well, if this gal's ability measures up to her looks you'll have made a good trade," said Fred, lighting a cigaret and leaning back in the chair on the other side of the desk. "She seems all right," the lawyer admitted. "I don't think I'll keep her though. She doesn't seem to fit in here." He rubbed his plump cheek in characteristic gesture of doubt. Johnson pulled the chair closer. "Listen, George, she's just what this office needs. If she does her work satisfactorily, let her stay she brightens the place up. The clients are going to like that after the witch. This girl has personality besides being attractive." George continued to scratch at his cheek for a moment and then shrugged and picked up a file before him. He was beginning to tire of the subject. Only this morning he had been surprised to have his wife leap to the girl's defense with a similar argument. "I thought businessmen's wives weren't supposed to like attractive secretaries," he had protested. "George, don't be silly," she had said from behind the coffee pot. "I was hoping you'd get some nice young girl when Miss Simpson left. That woman gave me chills." "Damn!" he exclaimed, and then handed the file to Fred. "These are the agreements you wanted," he told him. Johnson crushed the cigaret into the ashtray Page Fourteen and rose to his feet. He smiled as he turned to the door. "Give the girl a chance, George." Mr. Mogley pushed the red button and then watched the door as the girl entered with her notebook and pen in a well-manicured hand. Yes, sir?" she said, smiling. Miss Simpson had never smiled. "I'd like to dictate a complaint," he told her. Beth Porter sat down in the chair recently vacated by Johnson. She crossed her slim and graceful legs and looked up expectantly, her lips parted. Mr. Mogley glanced at her disapprovingly. Miss Simpson had never worn lipstick. He leaned back, clasped his heavy hands, and began to dictate. Because of the increased speed he had become accustomed to using in the past few days, the complaint was soon dictated, and Miss Porter departed with jaunty steps. It was not that he was trying with his changed habits to make the work more difficult for her, he explained to himself, but rather that it was necessary to test her. Back at her desk Beth Porter shook her head as she fed a letter-head into the typewriter. "George Mogley, Attorney at Law," she read, wondering for at least the hundredth time why her employer was so prejudiced against her. It was a somewhat new experience for the popular and attractive girl to be disliked. She wondered what would happen when the probationary period was over. Her shoulder-length hair swung around her face as she looked around the comfortable office from the neat row of chairs for clients, to the steel-gray filing cabinets, and back to her own compact desk. She didn't want to leave when the office, the work, and the people she came in contact with were so pleasant all except for her employer, that is. Well, she had done her best, and that was that. It was unnatural for her to be depressed for long, and she was soon humming as she typed. She failed to hear the outer door open and jumped as she heard a flat voice say, "Young woman!" She raised startled eyes to the cold gaze of a most unpleasant-appearing woman. The thinness of her figure was made more obvious by an unflattering man-tailored black suit, and the harsh lines of her face were accentuated by the way in which her mousy-brown hair was drawn back tightly against her head. Icy-blue eyes were framed by silver-rimmed spectacles. It was the uncompromising stare of these eyes which brought the young woman back into action, and she managed a smile as she said, "Yes, ma'am. Did you wish to see Mr. Mog-ley?" "No, it's not necessary," the woman replied. "I merely wanted to get some things I left here." She added by way of explanation, "I'm Miss Simpson, Mr. Mogley's former secretary." Beth Porter introduced herself and moved to let the older woman open desk drawers. She made a few attempts at friendly conversation. "Mr. Mogley told me about your mother's illness. I hope she's better now," she said. "I was sorry you had to leave so suddenly that I couldn't meet you before." "She's better," the harsh voice replied. "Perhaps you could give me a few pointers on the position," Beth persisted. "Just do the work and keep to yourself. That's what I did," was the brief answer. Neither of them noticed the door marked "Private" as it swung open slightly to allow Mr. Mogley to see into the outer office. He wasn't spying, he told himself. He merely had to see how Miss Porter handled clients occasionally. He was surprised to see Miss Simpson and almost emerged from his lair to speak with her. He was stopped, however, by the conversation of his secretaries, new and old, which sounded interesting. "Yes, of course, but don't you agree that a secretary should try to help her employer by being cheerful and friendly toward clients ..." "Miss Porter," the woman said, straightening her already straight hat a dowdy black beret "I see no need for anything but conscientious work. I never permitted myself to become friendly with any of the clients." "Perhaps you're right," Beth said as she took a withered rose from the vase on the file cabinet. She caught Miss Simpson's disapproving glance and said, "I think flowers brighten an office so much, don't you?" "I suppose so, if an office is a place to be brightened." The woman shut a desk drawer and rose from the chair. "I see you've left the magazines out, too," she said, nodding toward a small table in the corner. "I never did. Saw no need for them myself." "Well, maybe not," Beth said hesitantly. She did not want to argue but found a docile reply rather difficult, especially when she noticed Miss Simpson's frequent condemning glances at her hair. "Touch it up, do you?" the older woman remarked with a knowing sniff. Beth gasped at the woman's rudeness, as did Mr. Mogley a few yards away. With increasing surprise he had found himself longing to emerge in defense of his new secretary, and at Miss Simpson's latest chilling comment he shut the door to restrain himself. "Lord!" he muttered, wiping his face as he leaned back against the door. "What a battle-ax!" Page Fifteen