gone. He’d recently been promoted to a post of grandeur and affluence at Cousin Percy Kelling’s accounting firm. He’d toned down his wardrobe and gone in for good works such as befit a man of serious purpose. Instead of hanging around the Charles Street coffeehouses during his spare time, he’d been putting in a good many hours over at the SCRC, setting up an improved accounting system for Dolph.
Now he was ready to set up his own household. Not long hence, he intimated, Mr. and Mrs. Bittersohn, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Brooks Kelling, would be receiving invitations to what would no doubt be a pretty splashy wedding. The bride to be was not the Miss Jennifer LaValliere who’d once captured his fancy in this very room—she’d been Mrs. Somebody Else for quite a while now—but a Jennifer whose father was so big in real estate that Eugene didn’t have to say how big he was. Miss Wilton-Rugge held her degree from Babson Institute and shared her prospective bridegroom’s passion for a real knock-down-and-drag-out, rough-and-tumble audit.
“Then you won’t be doing volunteer work at the SCRC any more?” Sarah asked him.
“I doubt if I would have in any case,” he told her. “What I’ve been doing, basically, is setting up a simple, workable bookkeeping system for the center. They have rather an interesting problem over there, you know, with so many members bringing in various kinds of junk, the different salvage places they work with and all. Once I’ve got things running smoothly, though, they should be able to function without a hitch.” Porter-Smith went on to explain in totally incomprehensible detail just how simple and foolproof his system would be.
“But I take it you haven’t been working in direct contact with the members,” Max put in when it became possible to do so.
“Not really. I pass the time of day with them, you know, and try to answer their questions about Social Security and old-age benefits. It’s appalling how ignorant some of those people are about handling their finances.”
“I daresay most of them have never had any finances to handle,” said Brooks Kelling.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Porter-Smith contradicted, as he was always ready to do. “One fellow tells me he used to be the bookkeeper for a big meat-packing plant, until he became a vegetarian and his principles cost him his job. According to Loveday, they all lie about what important jobs they used to have, but this man does at least appear to understand the basic principles of accounting. A good deal better than Loveday does, I must say. I’ve never seen a worse mess than those books were in before I took them over. Loveday himself admits figures aren’t his forte. I can’t help wondering how much his ineptitude’s cost the Kellings, though I suppose I shouldn’t say so in front of their relatives.”
Brooks and Sarah burst out laughing. “Don’t worry about Dolph’s losing money,” Sarah assured the accountant. “I can’t say about the books, but I can guarantee you that Dolph has a running record in his head of how much the center has taken in and put out ever since the day they opened. If you asked him this minute what the balance of their checking account is, he’d tell you right down to the penny. It’s a family joke that most of the Kelling men have adding machines in their heads. So do some of the women, for that matter. Right, Brooks?”
“Oh yes, I do it myself, though money has never been among my primary interests. Sorry, I wasn’t meaning to pun. Even my Cousin Jeremy, whom I believe you all know, isn’t quite the devil-may-care spendthrift he likes to pretend he is. I’ve sometimes suspected his penchant for martinis stems from the plain economic fact that good gin costs less than good whiskey.”
“I never thought of that, but you could be right, Brooks,” said Sarah. “Getting back to that bookkeeper who swore off meat and ruined his career, Eugene, do you think he could by
Now he was ready to set up his own household. Not long hence, he intimated, Mr. and Mrs. Bittersohn, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Brooks Kelling, would be receiving invitations to what would no doubt be a pretty splashy wedding. The bride to be was not the Miss Jennifer LaValliere who’d once captured his fancy in this very room—she’d been Mrs. Somebody Else for quite a while now—but a Jennifer whose father was so big in real estate that Eugene didn’t have to say how big he was. Miss Wilton-Rugge held her degree from Babson Institute and shared her prospective bridegroom’s passion for a real knock-down-and-drag-out, rough-and-tumble audit.
“Then you won’t be doing volunteer work at the SCRC any more?” Sarah asked him.
“I doubt if I would have in any case,” he told her. “What I’ve been doing, basically, is setting up a simple, workable bookkeeping system for the center. They have rather an interesting problem over there, you know, with so many members bringing in various kinds of junk, the different salvage places they work with and all. Once I’ve got things running smoothly, though, they should be able to function without a hitch.” Porter-Smith went on to explain in totally incomprehensible detail just how simple and foolproof his system would be.
“But I take it you haven’t been working in direct contact with the members,” Max put in when it became possible to do so.
“Not really. I pass the time of day with them, you know, and try to answer their questions about Social Security and old-age benefits. It’s appalling how ignorant some of those people are about handling their finances.”
“I daresay most of them have never had any finances to handle,” said Brooks Kelling.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Porter-Smith contradicted, as he was always ready to do. “One fellow tells me he used to be the bookkeeper for a big meat-packing plant, until he became a vegetarian and his principles cost him his job. According to Loveday, they all lie about what important jobs they used to have, but this man does at least appear to understand the basic principles of accounting. A good deal better than Loveday does, I must say. I’ve never seen a worse mess than those books were in before I took them over. Loveday himself admits figures aren’t his forte. I can’t help wondering how much his ineptitude’s cost the Kellings, though I suppose I shouldn’t say so in front of their relatives.”
Brooks and Sarah burst out laughing. “Don’t worry about Dolph’s losing money,” Sarah assured the accountant. “I can’t say about the books, but I can guarantee you that Dolph has a running record in his head of how much the center has taken in and put out ever since the day they opened. If you asked him this minute what the balance of their checking account is, he’d tell you right down to the penny. It’s a family joke that most of the Kelling men have adding machines in their heads. So do some of the women, for that matter. Right, Brooks?”
“Oh yes, I do it myself, though money has never been among my primary interests. Sorry, I wasn’t meaning to pun. Even my Cousin Jeremy, whom I believe you all know, isn’t quite the devil-may-care spendthrift he likes to pretend he is. I’ve sometimes suspected his penchant for martinis stems from the plain economic fact that good gin costs less than good whiskey.”
“I never thought of that, but you could be right, Brooks,” said Sarah. “Getting back to that bookkeeper who swore off meat and ruined his career, Eugene, do you think he could by
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