The Flying Elephants

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Bill Drucker turned off the Galle Road into the asphalt drive of the Colombo Club and wrenched the company sedan to a vicious squealing stop. He slammed the door behind him and walked out of the fierce Ceylon sunlight into the relative coolness of the club lounge. He sank into one of the big leather chairs and ordered a gin and ginger beer from the soft-footed waiter. Then he sat, staring into space, puzzled and hurt, his teeth clamped so tight that knots of muscle showed at the corners of his square jaw.

While he was waiting for his drink, he fished in the pocket of his white mesh shirt and pulled out the folded carbon copy of die letter that old T. F. Carson had mailed to the home office of the Purtron Oil Company. Even though Carson had handed him the copy at noontime, already the edges were beginning to fray from many readings.

He unfolded it and his eyes flickered across the remembered phrases; he almost knew it by heart, “...have to admit that Mr. William Drucker is unsuited for employment with the Ceylon office of this company... during his three months he has demonstrated that he cannot effectively sell our products... vague and indifferent in his approach to his work... inferior technical knowledge and ability... unstable and hot headed... a liability to my present operations... that he be returned to the States as soon as a replacement arrives.”

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