On his way down the long passageway that led to McLaughlin's office, Skinner had made up his mind to "demand" a raise. Then he thought it might be better to "ask" for a raise. Then he decided on second thoughts, that to "demand" would be a little too stiff, while to "ask" would put him in the suppliant class. So he compromised with himself and concluded merely to "suggest" a raise. "Mr. McLaughlin, I came in to see how you felt about giving me a little more money." McLaughlin flushed and swung around in his swivel-chair with a ready retort on his lips; but, meeting the quiet, gray eyes of his subordinate, he said simply, "Raise your salary?" Skinner nodded. "I just wanted to know how you feel about it." "You know how we feel about it. We have n't done it, have we?" Skinner saw that the "merely suggest" scheme did n't work. He might have urged as a reason for his demand his value to the house, but, like most men, he was a good advocate for others but a poor advocate for himself. Besides, if he did so, he would give McLaughlin a chance to depreciate his services, which would be very humiliating. At the mere thought of it he became nervous, and decided to plead rather than argue. "My expenses are increasing and--" But McLaughlin cut him short. "So are ours." The boss was going to add his customary excuse when tackled for more money, "And times are hard with us, our customers don't pay up, and our creditors--" but he suddenly remembered that he was speaking to his cashier. He turned away and looked into space and drummed on his desk with an ivory paper-cutter. Thus he remained, apparently pondering the matter for some seconds, while hope and fear chased each other up and down Skinner's spinal column. Then the boss turned to his papers. "I'll talk it over with Perkins. Stop in on your way home, Skinner." McLaughlin did n't even look up as he spoke, and Skinner felt that somehow a chasm of antagonism had yawned between him and the boss, that their relations had suddenly ceased to be harmonious, that they were no longer pulling together, working against a common competitor, but were scheming against each other. "Why the devil does he want to keep me on the rack for seven hours more?" thought Skinner on his way back to his cage. "Why could n't he say 'yes' or 'no'?" Well, anyway, the die was cast. He was n't going to worry about it any more. Let McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., do that! The "cage man" opened his cash-book and went to work. After Skinner had gone, McLaughlin rang the bell on his desk, and when the boy appeared, he said, "Ask Mr. Perkins please to step in here." The junior partner, immaculately dressed and twirling his tawny mustache with a proper Harvard affectation of poise, entered a few moments later and found McLaughlin with his feet on the desk, staring ahead with humorous intentness.