The Non-Statistical Man by Raymond F. Jones Page B

insurance statistician wasn’t on the Clementi jury. We’ve had clean-cut justice done on this case, a thing our courts and the citizens of Landbridge can be proud of. But we’ll tell you: if anyone still cares to make a gift of a bale of hay at this particular date, your reporter will see that it’s properly delivered.”
    It sent a stunning wave of hurt through Bascomb as he read it. Hap Johnson had been his friend. This bitterness was something he did not understand; he gave up trying.'
    On his desk, when he reached the office, there was a note for him to appear in the office of vice-president Sprock. Bascomb caught furtive glances of those beyond the glass walls of his office as he read it. Obviously they’d seen the morning papers.
    Hadley hadn’t, apparently, for he came in brightly, almost on Bascomb’s heels. “Here’s the last of the policies you asked about, Mr. Bascomb,” he said. Bheuner's Hardware Store. It burned to the ground last night.”
    That must have been in the second section, which Bascomb hadn’t read. He stood staring, long after Hadley had left, at the two papers on his desk: the order from Sprock, and the claim from Bheuner. The hardware man hadn’t lost any time, he thought.
    But it would do no good to call it to Sprock’s attention now; his case was lost, as far as New England was concerned. He left the claim paper on his desk and walked slowly down the hall.
    The Vice-President was surprisingly direct and to the point. He outlined briefly the history of the insurance business, particularly that of New England. He dwelt at moderate length on the sacredness of the obligations incurred by the Company in behalf of the Policyholders. He went most heavily into the personal qualifications required of the ones chosen to stand vigil over that enduring trust.
    But the thing of greatest significance was his parting shot: “I shall see to it personally, Bascomb, that no firm in this field ever considers your name on its roster without knowing the true facts of your fantastic attempts to besmirch the entire insurance institution in America! Intuition! Good-day, Mr. Bascomb.”
    He returned along the hall to his own office. Blackballed; he had no doubts that Sprock would and could do it.
    He had thirty days coming if he wanted it, but he declined. He told Sprock he’d finish up at once, if that was all right; it was. He turned over his current studies to Wardlaw, Assistant Statistician. He cleaned out his desk and said a stiff goodbye to the office associates who didn’t suddenly have to go down the hall for a break as they saw he was about ready.
    That was it. He and New England were through. As he turned his back on the building he was aware that this fact had not sunk thoroughly into all his cells. A certain part of him had no doubt that he would be coming this way again in the morning. It would be a bitter struggle when that certain part attained full awareness.
    Sarah was not surprised. They had discussed it at breakfast, and she had told him it was going to happen. He had believed her, but hoped for some miracle to prove her wrong—to prove all her intuitive hunches wrong for the rest of their lives.
    It wouldn’t be bad, however, he told her; he’d start looking in the morning. He might have to go farther away, but there wouldn’t be much trouble for a man of his experience. He didn’t tell her of Sprock’s threat.
    He did little the next day except write some letters asking for interviews. He went to a public stenographer in town to do this, and came home early—at the height of thirteen-year-old Mark’s wails of rage and discomfort.
    These were coming from the direction of the bathroom, where Bascomb found Sarah busy with soap and water and bandages. His oldest boy’s eye was tightly closed. Cuts and bruises decorated the rest of his face and his upper torso.
    Bascomb wanted to make it light, but he saw Sarah’s face and changed his intended tone. “What was it all about?”