trouble. I guess you’ve got troubles enough just now.” (Hysterical laughter.)
The sheep-eyed gentleman beside Mr. Banks’ desk looked at him anxiously. “I hope that wasn’t bad news,” he said.
“No, no,” said Mr. Banks. “I’ve got a daughter getting married tomorrow.”
“Oh, of course. Quite,” said the sheep-eyed gentleman and resumed his narrative.
“Darling, I’m so sorry to bother you again but I’m almost crazy. You can’t imagine what’s happened. The Bennett boy has come down with measles and they can’t take in Cousin Laura and Bob. What in the world are we—I know, dear, but I thought you might have some ideas. ”
By twelve-thirty he could stand it no longer. Shoving a pile of papers into a desk drawer, he rang for Miss Bellamy. “I’m getting the hell out of here,” he said defiantly. The phone rang. “I’m gone.”
“So sorry,” murmured Miss Bellamy into the mouthpiece. “He was called away very hurriedly. He just this moment left the office. No, I don’t think I could catch him. I know how sorry he’ll be. He wanted to talk to you. Yes, I’ll certainly tell him.” She hung up the receiver. “It’s that Mr. Wadley you’ve been trying to get for three days.”
“That fellow has no judgment,” said Mr. Banks.
“Yes indeed,” said Miss Bellamy soothingly. “Now I have everything ready in this envelope. Here’s a list of all the ushers and bridesmaids and where they’re staying and their telephone numbers. And then here’s a full set of church seating lists. There’s one for each usher with his name typed on it and special instructions for those who have special jobs. I’ve put in some extra copies just in case. Oh, yes, and I’ve phoned all the papers just to make sure they remember and—well—I guess that’s all till I see you in church.”
Miss Bellamy looked suddenly deflated and wistful. Mr. Banks had never seen her like that before. For one terrible moment he thought she was going to cry.
“You’ve been wonderful,” he said awkwardly. “Wonderful. I’ll never forget it.” He left quickly as the phone started to ring.
• • •
Several days earlier Miss Bellamy had sent crisp little notes to all the ushers and bridesmaids, attempting to impress upon their scattered minds that the rehearsal would be at five-thirty at St. George’s Church and the importance of being prompt.
Mr. Banks had insisted on being there fifteen minutes ahead of time. He wanted this wedding well rehearsed—no sloppy business—and he felt somehow that if he and Mrs. Banks were early it would expedite things. To his dismay he found the church in complete darkness. The Reverend Mr. Galsworthy and the organist were nowhere about. The smoothly functioning machinery of St. George’s was at dead center and the self-starter was missing.
He finally located Mr. Tringle in the cellar.
Mr. Banks had pictured the organist busily warming up his instrument with a burst of arpeggios and Mr. Galsworthy nervously pacing the aisle, measuring distances, putting markers in his book and making a few final notes. Not even Mr. Tringle, the sexton, was puttering around.
He finally located Mr. Tringle in the cellar of the rectory gluing the back of a broken chair. “Good gracious,” he exclaimed. “That late a’ready? Maybe we best go up an’ put on the lights.”
The first bridesmaid turned up at a quarter to six. She was a wispy little number who seemed to have been left out of everything to date and was obviously terrified at the thought of what lay ahead. The organist strolled in several minutes later.
“Are you sure,” asked Mrs. Banks anxiously, “that you know what you are going to play at the wedding?”
“Oh, yes,” said the organist. He was an earnest-looking young man with heavy horn spectacles. “Oh, quite. This is the Broadhurst wedding, isn’t it?”
The knuckles of Mr. Banks’ hand grew white as he clutched the end of the pew. “No,” he said
The sheep-eyed gentleman beside Mr. Banks’ desk looked at him anxiously. “I hope that wasn’t bad news,” he said.
“No, no,” said Mr. Banks. “I’ve got a daughter getting married tomorrow.”
“Oh, of course. Quite,” said the sheep-eyed gentleman and resumed his narrative.
“Darling, I’m so sorry to bother you again but I’m almost crazy. You can’t imagine what’s happened. The Bennett boy has come down with measles and they can’t take in Cousin Laura and Bob. What in the world are we—I know, dear, but I thought you might have some ideas. ”
By twelve-thirty he could stand it no longer. Shoving a pile of papers into a desk drawer, he rang for Miss Bellamy. “I’m getting the hell out of here,” he said defiantly. The phone rang. “I’m gone.”
“So sorry,” murmured Miss Bellamy into the mouthpiece. “He was called away very hurriedly. He just this moment left the office. No, I don’t think I could catch him. I know how sorry he’ll be. He wanted to talk to you. Yes, I’ll certainly tell him.” She hung up the receiver. “It’s that Mr. Wadley you’ve been trying to get for three days.”
“That fellow has no judgment,” said Mr. Banks.
“Yes indeed,” said Miss Bellamy soothingly. “Now I have everything ready in this envelope. Here’s a list of all the ushers and bridesmaids and where they’re staying and their telephone numbers. And then here’s a full set of church seating lists. There’s one for each usher with his name typed on it and special instructions for those who have special jobs. I’ve put in some extra copies just in case. Oh, yes, and I’ve phoned all the papers just to make sure they remember and—well—I guess that’s all till I see you in church.”
Miss Bellamy looked suddenly deflated and wistful. Mr. Banks had never seen her like that before. For one terrible moment he thought she was going to cry.
“You’ve been wonderful,” he said awkwardly. “Wonderful. I’ll never forget it.” He left quickly as the phone started to ring.
• • •
Several days earlier Miss Bellamy had sent crisp little notes to all the ushers and bridesmaids, attempting to impress upon their scattered minds that the rehearsal would be at five-thirty at St. George’s Church and the importance of being prompt.
Mr. Banks had insisted on being there fifteen minutes ahead of time. He wanted this wedding well rehearsed—no sloppy business—and he felt somehow that if he and Mrs. Banks were early it would expedite things. To his dismay he found the church in complete darkness. The Reverend Mr. Galsworthy and the organist were nowhere about. The smoothly functioning machinery of St. George’s was at dead center and the self-starter was missing.
He finally located Mr. Tringle in the cellar.
Mr. Banks had pictured the organist busily warming up his instrument with a burst of arpeggios and Mr. Galsworthy nervously pacing the aisle, measuring distances, putting markers in his book and making a few final notes. Not even Mr. Tringle, the sexton, was puttering around.
He finally located Mr. Tringle in the cellar of the rectory gluing the back of a broken chair. “Good gracious,” he exclaimed. “That late a’ready? Maybe we best go up an’ put on the lights.”
The first bridesmaid turned up at a quarter to six. She was a wispy little number who seemed to have been left out of everything to date and was obviously terrified at the thought of what lay ahead. The organist strolled in several minutes later.
“Are you sure,” asked Mrs. Banks anxiously, “that you know what you are going to play at the wedding?”
“Oh, yes,” said the organist. He was an earnest-looking young man with heavy horn spectacles. “Oh, quite. This is the Broadhurst wedding, isn’t it?”
The knuckles of Mr. Banks’ hand grew white as he clutched the end of the pew. “No,” he said
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