Q is for...

Q is for....

QUINCY QUACKENBUSH'S QUANDARY

Quenton Quigley checked his cash quarterlies in his quaint old fashioned office when the next quarry of his quixotic temper appeared at the door. It was Quincy Quackenbush, one of a quartet of poorly qualified clerks. He was quaking in his boots waiting for the querulous old man to question him about the quantity of paper that had been used by the outer office in this last quarter.

"Twenty-five quires of quality linen-finished sheets," quoth the old man in his quarrelsome way. He moved his quartz paperweight, picked up his quill and quizzically checked the sets of quadrupled invoices in front of him.

Quickly, Quincy tried to quieten the old man by quoting his office mates.  "Quade says it was only 20 quires", he said, his voice quivering.

"Don't quibble over numbers with me," Quenton retorted, pulling his grandmother's quilt more tightly around his cold legs and trying not to think of the hot quail soup and quiche he knows is waiting for him at his dining table.  He took a quaff of his hot cider that was beside his desk lamp.  He was cold and hungry and Quincy quailed before the hard gleam in the old man's eye.

"I'll dock your pay by five quid this month, I will, and you'll give up your quota of vacation days too," the queer old man added in his quest to quash the extravagance of his employees.

At that, Quincy swiped at the quiff of hair that had fallen over his eyes, drew himself up tall and without even a qualm of nervousness he declared, "No you won't, because I quit!"

This is my entry for ABC Wednesday, begun and maintained by Mrs. Nesbitt and Roger Owen Green.  If you would like to see more interpretations of the letter Q please click HERE.