Laughing Bill Hyde and Other Stories Page 4

  WITH BRIDGES BURNED

  Louis Mitchell knew what the telegram meant, even though it was briefand cryptic. He had been expecting something of the sort ever sincethe bottom dropped out of the steel business and prices tobogganedforty dollars a ton. Nevertheless, it came as an undeniable shock, forhe had hoped the firm would keep him on in spite of hard times. Hewondered, as he sadly pocketed the yellow sheet, whether he had in himthe makings of a good life-insurance agent, or if he had not better"join out" with a medicine show. This message led him to think histalents must lie along the latter line. Certainly they did not lie inthe direction of metal supplies.

  He had plenty of time to think the situation over, however, for it isa long jump from Butte to Chicago; when he arrived at the latter placehe was certain of only one thing, he would not stand a cut in salary.Either Comer & Mathison would have to fire him outright or keep him onat his present wage; he would not compromise as the other salesmen haddone and were doing.

  Twenty-five hundred a year is a liberal piece of money where peopleraise their own vegetables, but to a man traveling in the West it isabout equal to "no pair." Given two hundred dollars a month and a fairexpense account a salesman can plow quite a respectable furrow aroundPlymouth Rock, but out where they roll their r's and monogram theirlive stock he can't make a track. Besides the loss of prestige and allthat went with it, there was another reason why young Mitchell couldnot face a cut. He had a wife, and she was too new, too wonderful;she admired him too greatly to permit of such a thing. She might, shedoubtless would, lose confidence in him if he took a step backward,and that confidence of hers was the most splendid thing in Mitchell'slife. No, if Comer & Mathison wanted to make any change, they wouldhave to promote him. Ten minutes with the "old man," however, servedto jar this satisfactory determination to its foundation. Mr. Comerput the situation clearly, concisely.

  "Business is rotten. We've got to lay all the younger men off or we'llgo broke," he announced.

  "But--I'm married," protested the young salesman.

  "So am I; so is Mathison; so are the rest of the fellows. But, my boy,this is a panic. We wouldn't let you go if we could keep you."

  "I can sell goods--"

  "That's just it; we don't want you to. Conditions are such that wecan't afford to sell anything. The less business we do the fewerlosses we stand to make. Good Lord, Louis, this is the worst year thetrade has ever known!"

  "B-but--I'm married," blankly repeated Mitchell.

  Comer shook his head. "We'd keep you in a minute if there was any wayto do it. You go home and see the wife. Of course if you can showus where you're worth it, we'll let you stay; but--well, you can't.There's no chance. I'll see you to-morrow."

  Ordinarily Mitchell would not have allowed himself the extravaganceof a cab, but to-day the cars were too slow. He wondered how the girlwould take this calamity, their very first. As a matter of fact, shedivined the news even before he had voiced his exuberant greetings,and, leading him into the neat little front room, she curled up at hisside, demanding all the reasons for his unexpected recall. He saw thatshe was wide-eyed and rather white. When he had broken the bad newsshe inquired, bravely:

  "What is your plan, boy?"

  "I haven't any."

  "Nonsense!"

  "I mean it. What can I do? I don't know anything except the steelbusiness. I can lick my weight in wildcats on my own ground--but--"The wife nodded her blonde head in complete agreement. "But that letsme out," he concluded, despondently. "I can sell steel because I knowit from the ground up; it's my specialty."

  "Oh, we mustn't think about making a change."

  "I've handled more big jobs than any man of my age and experience onthe road, and yet--I'm fired." The husband sighed wearily. "I builtthat big pipe line in Portland; I sold those smelters in Anaconda, andthe cyanide tanks for the Highland Girl. Yes, and a lot of other jobs,too. I know all about the smelter business, but that's no sign I cansell electric belts or corn salve. We're up against it, girlie."

  "Have people quit building smelters?"

  "They sure have--during this panic. There's nothing doing anywhere."

  The wife thought for a moment before saying, "The last time you werehome you told me about some Western mining men who had gone to SouthAfrica--"

  "Sure! To the Rand! They've made good, too; they're whopping bigoperators, now."

  "You said there was a large contract of some sort coming up inLondon."

  "Large! Well, rather! The Robinson-Ray job. It's the biggest ever, inmy line. They're going to rebuild those plants the Boers destroyed. Iheard all about it in Montana."

  "Well!" Mrs. Mitchell spoke with finality. "That's the place for you.Get the firm to send you over there."

  "Um-m! I thought about that, but it scared me out. It's too big. Why,it's a three-million-dollar job. You see, we've never landed a largeforeign contract in this country as yet." Mitchell sat up suddenly."But say! This panic might--" Then he relaxed. "Oh, what's the use?If there were a chance the firm wouldn't send me. Comer would gohimself--he'd take the whole outfit over for a job like that. Besides,it's too big a thing for our people; they couldn't handle it."

  Mrs. Mitchell's eyes were as round as buttons. "Three million dollars'worth of steel in one contract! Do you think you could land it if youwent?"

  "It's my line of work," the young man replied, doubtfully. "I'll betI know more about cyanide tanks than any salesman in Europe, and if Ihad a decent price to work on--"

  "Then it's the chance we've been waiting for."

  The girl scrambled to her feet and, fetching a chair, began to talkearnestly, rapidly. She talked for a long time, until gradually theman's gray despondency gave way to her own bright optimism. Nor wasit idle theory alone that she advanced; Mitchell found that she knewalmost as much about the steel business as he did, and when she hadfinished he arose and kissed her.

  "You've put new heart into me, anyhow. If you're game to do yourshare, why--I'll try it out. But remember it may mean all we've got inthe bank, and--" He looked at her darkly.

  "It's the biggest chance we'll ever have," she insisted. "It's worthtrying. Don't let's wait to get rich until we are old."

  When Mr. Comer returned from lunch he found his youngest salesmanwaiting for him, and inside of ten minutes he had learned whatMitchell had on his mind. With two words Comer blew out the gas.

  "You're crazy," said he.

  "Am I? It's worth going after."

  "In the first place no big foreign job ever came to America--"

  "I know all that. It's time we got one."

  "In the second place Comer & Mathison are jobbers."

  "I'll get a special price from Carnegie."

  "In the third place it would cost a barrel of money to send a man toEngland."

  Mitchell swallowed hard. "I'll pay my own way."

  Mr. Comer regarded the speaker with genuine astonishment. "_You'll_pay your way? Why, you haven't got any money."

  "I've got a thousand dollars--or the wife has. It's our nest-egg."

  "It would take five thousand to make the trip."

  "I'll make it on one. Yes, and I'll come back with that job. Don't yousee this panic makes the thing possible? Yes, and I'm the one manto turn the trick; for it's right in my line. I'll see the Carnegiepeople at Pittsburgh. If they quote the right price I'll ask you for aletter, and that's all you'll have to do. Will you let me go?"

  "What sort of a letter?"

  "A letter stating that I am your general sales manager."

  The steel merchant's mouth fell open.

  "Oh, I only want it for this London trip," Mitchell explained. "Iwon't use it except as a credential. But I've got to go armed, youunderstand. Mr. Comer, if I don't land that Robinson-Ray contract, Iwon't come back. I--I couldn't, after this. Maybe I'll drive a 'bus--Ihear they have a lot of them in London."

  "Suppose, for instance, you should get the job on a profitable basis;the biggest job this concern ever had and one of the biggest ever leta
nywhere--" Mr. Comer's brow was wrinkled humorously. "What would youexpect out of it?"

  Mitchell grinned. "Well, if I signed all those contracts as yourgeneral sales manager, I'd probably form the habit."

  "There's nothing modest about you, is there?" queried the elder man.

  "Not a thing. My theory of business is that a man should either befired or promoted. If I get that job I'll leave it to you to do what'sright. I won't ask any questions."

  "The whole thing is utterly absurd," Mitchell's employer protested."You haven't a chance! But--Wait!" He pressed a button on his desk."We'll talk with Mathison."

  Louis Mitchell took the night train for Pittsburgh. He was back inthree days, and that afternoon Mr. Comer, in the privacy of his ownoffice, dictated a letter of which no carbon copy was preserved. Hegave it to the young man with his own hand, and with these words:"You'd better think it over carefully, my boy. It's the most idioticthing I ever heard of, and there isn't one chance in a million. Itwon't do you any good to fail, even on a forlorn hope like this."

  But Mitchell smiled. "I can't fail--I'm married." Then when the otherseemed unimpressed by this method of reasoning, he explained: "I guessyou never saw my wife. She says I can do it."

  It was only to this lady herself that Mitchell recited the details ofhis reception at Pittsburgh, and of the battle he had fought in theCarnegie office. The Carnegie men had refused to take him seriously,had laughed at him as at a mild-mannered lunatic.

  "But I got my price," he concluded, triumphantly, "and it sure looksgood to me. Now for the painful details and the sad good-bys."

  "How long will you be gone?" his wife inquired.

  "I can't stay more than a month, the bank-roll is too small."

  "Oo-oo-h! A month! London is a long way off." Mrs. Mitchell's voicebroke plaintively and her husband's misgivings at once took fire.

  "If I fail, as they all feel sure I will, what then?" he inquired."I'll be out of a job! I'll be a joke in the steel business; I'll bebroke. What will you do?"

  She gave him a ravishing, dimpled smile, and her eyes were brave oncemore. "Why, I haven't forgotten my shorthand, and there are always thedepartment stores." In a high, querulous tone she cried "Ca--a--sh!"then laughed aloud at his expression. "Oh, it wouldn't hurt me any.But--you won't fail--you can't! We're going to be rich. Now, we'lldivide our grand fortune." She produced a roll of currency from herpurse and took four twenty-dollar bills from it.

  "Only eighty dollars?" he queried.

  "It's more than enough for me. You'll be back in a month." She thrustthe remaining notes into his hand. "It's our one great, gloriouschance, dear. Don't you understand?"

  Faith, hope and enthusiasm, the three graces of salesmanship, thrivebest in bright places. Had it not been for his wife's cheer duringthose final hours young Mitchell surely would have weakened before itcame time to leave on the following day. It was a far cry to London,and he realized 'way back in his head that there wasn't one chance ina million of success. He began to doubt, to waver, but the girl seemedto feel that her lord was bound upon some flaring triumph, and evenat the station her face was wreathed in smiles. Her blue eyes werebrimming with excitement; she bubbled with hopeful, helpful advice;she patted her husband's arm and hugged it to her. "You're going towin, boy. You're going to win," she kept repeating. For one momentonly--at the actual parting--she clung to him wildly, with all herwoman's strength, then, as the warning cry sounded, she kissed himlong and hungrily, and fairly thrust him aboard the Pullman. He didnot dream how she wilted and drooped the instant he had gone.

  As the train pulled out he ran back to the observation car to wavea last farewell, and saw her clinging to the iron fence, sobbingwretchedly; a desolate, weak little girl-wife mastered by a thousandfears. She was too blind with tears to see him. The sight raised alump in the young husband's throat which lasted to Fort Wayne.

  "Poor little thoroughbred," he mused. "I just can't lose, that's all."

  The lump was not entirely gone when the luncheon call came, soMitchell dined upon it, reasoning that this kind of a beginningaugured well for an economical trip.

  Now that he was away from the warmth of his wife's enthusiasmcontemplation of his undertaking made the salesman rather sick. Ifonly he were traveling at the firm's expense, if only he had somethingto fall back upon in case of failure, if only Comer & Mathison werebehind him in any way, the complexion of things would have beenaltogether different. But to set out for a foreign land with nobacking whatever in the hope of accomplishing that which no Americansalesman had ever been able to accomplish, and to finance theundertaking out of his own pocket on a sum less than he would haveexpected for cigarette money--well, it was an enterprise to testa fellow's courage and to dampen the most youthful optimism. Hisproposal to the firm to win all or lose all, he realized now, hadbeen in the nature of a bluff, and the firm had called it. There wasnothing to do, therefore, but go through and win; there could be noturning back, for he had burned his bridges.

  When one enters a race-horse in a contest he puts the animal in goodcondition, he grooms it, he feeds it the best the stable affords,he trains and exercises it carefully. Mitchell had never owned arace-horse, but he reasoned that similar principles should apply to ahuman being under similar conditions. He had entered a competition,therefore he decided to condition himself physically and mentally forthe race. A doped pony cannot run, neither can a worried salesman sellgoods.

  In line with this decision, he took one of the best state-rooms on the_Lucania_, and denied himself nothing that the ship afforded. Everymorning he took his exercise, every evening a rub-down. He trainedlike a fighter, and when he landed he was fit; his muscles werehard, his stomach strong, his brain clear. He went first-class fromLiverpool to London; he put up at the Metropole in luxurious quarters.When he stopped to think about that nine hundred and twenty, alreadyamazingly shrunken, he argued bravely that what he had spent had goneto buy condition powders.

  On the way across he had posted himself so far as possible about theproposed Robinson-Ray plant. He learned that there were to be fifteenbatteries of cyanide tanks, two high--eighty-four in all--supportedby steel sub- and super-structures; the work to be completed atKrugersdorpf, twenty miles out of Johannesburg, South Africa.The address of the company was No. 42-1/2 Threadneedle Street.Threadneedle Street was somewhere in London, and London was thecapital of a place called England.

  He knew other African contracts were under consideration, but hedismissed them from his thoughts and centered his forces uponthis particular job. Once he had taken a definite scent his earlytrepidations vanished. He became obsessed by a joyous, purposeful,unceasing energy that would not let him rest.

  The first evening in London he fattened himself for the fray with ahearty dinner, then he strove to get acquainted with his neighbors andhis environment. The nervous force within him needed outlet, but hewas frowned upon at every quarter. Even the waiter at his table madeit patent that his social standing would not permit him to indulgein the slightest intimacy with chance guests of the hotel, while theyoung Earl who had permitted Mitchell to register at the desk declinedutterly to go further with their acquaintance. Louis spent the eveningat the Empire, and the next morning, which was Sunday, he put in onthe top of a 'bus, laying himself open to the advances of anybody whocared to pay him the slightest attention. But he was ignored; eventhe driver, who spoke a foreign language, evidently considered him asuspicious character. Like a wise general, Louis reconnoitered No.42-1/2 Threadneedle Street during the afternoon, noting the lay of theland and deciding upon modes of transportation to and from. Underthe pressure of circumstance he chose a Cannon Street 'bus, fare"tuppence."

  Now garrulity is a disease that must either break out or strike inwardwith fatal results. When Sunday night came, Mitchell was about readyto fare forth with gun and mask and take conversation away fromanybody who had it to spare. He had begun to fear that his vocal cordswould atrophy.

  He was up early, had breakfasted, and was at 4
2-1/2 ThreadneedleStreet promptly at nine, beating the janitor by some twenty minutes.During the next hour and a half he gleaned considerable informationregarding British business methods, the while he monotonously poundedthe sidewalk.

  At nine-thirty a scouting party of dignified office-boys made acautious approach. At nine-thirty-five there came the main army ofclerks, only they were not clerks, but "clarks"--very impressivegentlemen with gloves, spats, sticks, silk hats and sack coats. Atthis same time, evidently by appointment, came the charwomen--"char"being spelled s-c-r-u-b, and affording an example of how pure Englishhas been corrupted out in the Americas.

  After the arrival of the head "clarks" and stenographers atnine-forty-five, there ensued fifteen minutes of guarded conversationin front of the offices. During this time the public issues of the daywere settled and the nation's policies outlined. At ten o'clock theoffices were formally opened, and at ten-thirty a reception wastendered to the managers who arrived dressed as for any well-conductedafternoon function.

  To Mitchell, who was accustomed to the feverish, football methods ofAmerican business life, all this was vastly edifying and instructive;it was even soothing, although he was vaguely offended to note thatpassers-by avoided him as if fearful of contamination.

  Upon entering 42-1/2 Threadneedle Street, he was halted by animperious office-boy. To him Louis gave his card with a request thatit be handed to Mr. Peebleby, then he seated himself and for an hourwitnessed a parade of unsmiling, silk-hatted gentlemen pass in and outof Mr. Peebleby's office. Growing impatient, at length, he inquired ofthe boy;

  "Is somebody dead around here or is this where the City Councilmeets?"

  "I beg pardon?" The lad was polite in a cool, superior way.

  "I say, what's the idea of the pall-bearers?"

  The youth's expression froze to one of disapproval and suspicion.

  "I mean the parade. Are these fellows Congress- or minstrel-men?"

  His hearer shrugged and smiled vacuously, then turned away, whereuponMitchell took him firmly by the arm.

  "Look here, my boy," he began. "There seems to be a lot of informationcoming to both of us. Who are these over-dressed gentlemen I seepromenading back and forth?"

  "Why--they're callers, customers, representatives of the firms we dobusiness with, sir."

  "Is this Guy Fawkes Day?"

  "No, sir."

  "Are these men here on business? Are any of them salesmen, forinstance?"

  "Yes, sir; some of them. Certainly, sir."

  "To see Mr. Peebleby about the new construction work?"

  "No doubt."

  "So, you're letting them get the edge on me."

  "I beg pardon?"

  "Never mind, I merely wanted to assure you that I have some olivespats, a high hat, and a walking-stick, but I left them at my hotel.I'm a salesman, too. Now then let's get down to business. I've comeall the way from America to hire an office-boy. I've heard so muchabout English office-boys that I thought I'd run over and get one.Would you entertain a proposition to go back to America and become mypartner?"

  The boy rolled his eyes; it was plain that he was seriously alarmed."You are ragging me, sir," he stammered, uncertainly.

  "Perish the thought!"

  "I--I--Really, sir--"

  "I pay twenty-five dollars a week to office-boys. That's five 'pun' inyour money, I believe. But, meanwhile, now that I'm in London, I havesome business with Mr. Peebleby." Mitchell produced an American silverdollar and forced it into the boy's hand, whereupon the latter blinkedin a dazed manner, then hazarded the opinion that Mr. Peebleby mightbe at leisure if Mr. Mitchell had another card.

  "Never mind the card; I can't trust you with another one. Just show methe trail and I'll take it myself. That's a way we have in America."

  A moment later he was knocking at a door emblazoned, "DirectorGeneral." Without awaiting an invitation, he turned the knob andwalked in. Before the astonished Mr. Peebleby could expostulate he hadintroduced himself and was making known his mission.

  Fortunately for Mitchell, Englishmen are not without a sense ofhumor. The announcement that this young man had come all the way fromChicago, Illinois, U.S.A., to bid on the Krugersdorpf work struck Mr.Peebleby as amusing. Not only was the idea in itself laughable, butalso the fact that a mere beardless youth should venture to figure ona contract of such gigantic proportions quite convulsed the DirectorGeneral, and in consequence he smiled. Then fearing that his dignityhad been jeopardized, he announced politely but firmly that theproposition was absurd, and that he had no time to discuss it.

  "I've come for that job, and I'm going to take it back with me,"Mitchell averred, with equal firmness. "I know more about this classof work than any salesman you have over here, and I'm going to buildyou the finest cluster of cyanide tanks you ever saw."

  "May I ask where you obtained this comprehensive knowledge of tankconstruction?" Mr. Peebleby inquired, with some curiosity.

  "Sure!" Mitchell ran through a list of jobs with which the DirectorGeneral could not have been unfamiliar. He mentioned work that causedthat gentleman to regard him more respectfully. For a time questionsand answers shot back and forth between them.

  "I tell you, that is my line," Mitchell declared, at length. "I'llread any blueprints you can offer. I'll answer any queries you canformulate. I'm the accredited representative of a big concern, and I'mentitled to a chance to figure, at least. That courtesy is due me."

  "I dare say it is," the other reluctantly agreed. "I'm very busy, butif that is the quickest way to end the discussion I'll give you theprints. I assure you, nevertheless, it is an utter waste of your timeand mine." He pushed a button and five minutes later a clerk staggeredback into the room with an armful of blueprints that caused Mitchellto gasp.

  "The bid must be in Thursday at ten-thirty," Peebleby announced.

  "Thursday? Why, good Lord! That's only three days, and there's adray-load of drawings!"

  "I told you it was a waste of time. You should have come sooner."

  Mitchell ran through the pile and his heart grew sick with dismay.There were drawings of tanks, drawings of substructures andsuperstructures in every phase of construction--enough of themto daunt a skilled engineer. He realized that he had by no meansappreciated the full magnitude of this work, in fact had never figuredon a job anything like this one. He could see at least a week's hard,constant labor ahead of him--a week's work to be done in three days.There was no use trying; the time was too short; it was a physicalimpossibility to formulate an intelligent proposition in such ashort length of time. Then to Mitchell's mind came the picture ofa wretched, golden-haired girl clinging to the iron fence of thePennsylvania depot. He gathered the rolls into his arms.

  "At ten-thirty, Thursday," said he.

  "Ten-thirty, sharp."

  "Thank you. I'll have my bid in."

  His muscles ached and his knees were trembling even before he hadreached the street. When he tried to board a 'bus he was waved away,so he called a cab, piled his blueprints inside of it, and thenclambered in on top of them. He realized that he was badly frightened.

  To this day the sight of a blueprint gives Louis Mitchell a peculiarnausea and a fluttering sensation about the heart. At three o'clockthe next morning he felt his way blindly to his bed and toppled uponit, falling straightway into a slumber during which he passed throughmonotonous, maddening wastes of blue and white, over which ranserpentine rows of figures.

  He was up with the dawn and at his desk again, but by four thatafternoon he was too dazed, too exhausted to continue. His eyes wereplaying him tricks, the room was whirling, his hand was shaking untilhis fingers staggered drunkenly across the sheets of paper. Groundplans, substructures, superstructures, were jumbled into a frightfultangle. He wanted to yell. Instead he flung the drawings about theroom, stamped savagely upon them, then rushed down-stairs and devoureda table d'hote dinner. He washed the meal down with a bottle of redwine, smoked a long cigar, then undressed and went to bed amid thescattered blue
prints. He slept like a dead man.

  He arose at sun-up, clear-headed, calm. All day he worked like amachine, increasing his speed as the hours flew. He took good care toeat and drink, and, above all, to smoke at regular intervals, but hedid not leave his room. By dark he had much of the task behind him; bymidnight he began to have hope; toward dawn he saw the end; and whendaylight came he collapsed.

  He had deciphered the tank and superstructure plans on forty-five setsof blueprints, had formulated a proposition, exclusive of substructurework, basing a price per pound on the American market then ruling,f.o.b. tidewater, New York. He had the proposition in his pocketwhen he tapped on the ground-glass door of Mr. Peebleby's office atten-twenty-nine Thursday morning.

  The Director General of the great Robinson-Ray Syndicate was genuinelysurprised to learn that the young American had completed a bid in soshort a time, then requested him, somewhat absent-mindedly, to leaveit on his desk where he could look it over at his leisure.

  "Just a moment," said his caller. "I'm going to sit down and talk toyou again. How long have you been using cyanide tanks, Mr. Peebleby?"

  "Ever since they were adopted." Mr. Peebleby was visibly annoyed atthis interruption to his morning's work.

  "Well, I can give you a lot of information about them."

  The Director General raised his brows haughtily. "Ah! Suggestions,amendments, improvements, no doubt."

  "Exactly."

  "In all my experience I never sent out a blueprint which some youthfulsalesman could not improve upon. Generally the younger the salesmanthe greater the improvement."

  In Mitchell's own parlance he "beat Mr. Peebleby to the punch." "Ifthat's the case, you've got a rotten line of engineers," he franklyannounced.

  "Indeed! I went over those drawings myself. I flattered myself thatthey were comprehensive and up-to-date." Mr. Peebleby was annoyed,nevertheless he was visibly interested and curious.

  "Well, they're not," the younger man declared, eying him boldly."For instance, you call for cast-iron columns in your sub-andsuper-structures, whereas they're obsolete. We've discarded them. Whatyou save in first cost you eat up, twice over, in freight. Not onlythat, but their strength is a matter of theory, not of fact. Then,too, in your structural-steel sections your factor of safety iswrongly figured. To get the best results your lower tanks are twentyinches too short and your upper ones nine inches too short. Foranother thing, you're using a section of beam which is five per cent.heavier than your other dimensions call for."

  The Director General sat back in his chair, a look of extremealertness replacing his former expression.

  "My word! Is there anything else?" He undertook to speak mockingly,but without complete success.

  "There is. The layout of your platework is all wrong--out of line withmodern practice. You should have interchangeable parts in every tank.The floor of your lower section should be convex, instead of flat, toget the run-off. You see, sir, this is my line of business."

  "Who is your engineer?" inquired the elder man. "I should like to talkto him."

  "You're talking to him now. I'm him--it--them. I'm the party! I toldyou I knew the game."

  There was a brief silence, then Mr. Peebleby inquired, "By the way,who helped you figure those prints?"

  "Nobody."

  "You did that _alone_, since Monday morning?" The speaker wasincredulous.

  "I did. I haven't slept much. I'm pretty tired."

  There was a new note in Mr. Peebleby's voice when he said: "Jove! I'vetreated you badly, Mr. Mitchell, but--I wonder if you're too tired totell my engineers what you told me just now? I should like them tohear you."

  "Trot them in." For the first time since leaving this office threedays before, Mitchell smiled. He was getting into his stride at last.After all, there seemed to be a chance.

  There followed a convention of the draftsmen and engineers of theRobinson-Ray Syndicate before which an unknown American youthdelivered an address on "Cyanide Tanks. How to Build Them; Where toBuy Them."

  It was the old story of a man who had learned his work thoroughly andwho loved it. Mitchell typified the theory of specialization; what heknew, he knew completely, and before he had more than begun his talkthese men recognized that fact. When he had finished, Mr. Peeblebyannounced that the bids would not be opened that day.

  The American had made his first point. He had gained time in whichto handle himself, and the Robinson-Ray people had recognized a newfactor in the field. When he was again in the Director General's room,the latter said:

  "I think I will have you formulate a new bid along the lines you havelaid down."

  "Very well."

  "You understand, our time is up. Can you have it ready by Saturday,three days from now?"

  Mitchell laughed. "It's a ten days' job for two men."

  "I know, but we can't wait."

  "Then give me until Tuesday; I'm used to a twenty-four-hour shiftnow. Meanwhile I'd like to leave these figures here for your chiefdraftsman to examine. Of course they are not to be consideredbinding."

  "Isn't that a bit--er--foolish?" inquired Peebleby? "Aren't youleaving a weapon behind you?"

  "Yes, but not the sort of a weapon you suspect," thought Mitchell."This is a boomerang." Aloud, he answered, lightly: "Oh, that's allright. I know I'm among friends."

  When his request was granted he made a mental note, "Step number two!"

  Again he filled a cab with drawings, again he went back to theMetropole and to maddening columns of new figures--back to themonotony of tasteless meals served at his elbow.

  But there were other things besides his own bid to think of now.Mitchell knew he must find what other firms were bidding on the job,and what prices they had bid. The first promised to require someingenuity, the second was a Titan's task.

  Salesmanship, in its highest development, is an exact science. Giventhe data he desired, Louis Mitchell felt sure he could read thefigures sealed up in those other bids to a nicety, but to get thatdata required much concentrated effort and much time. Time was what heneeded above all things; time to refigure these myriad drawings, timeto determine when the other bids had gone in, time to learn tradeconditions at the competitive plants, time to sleep. There were notsufficient hours in the day for all these things, so he rigidlyeconomized on the least important, sleep. He laid out a programfor himself; by night he worked in his room, by day he cruised forinformation, at odd moments around the dawn he slept. He began to feelthe strain before long. Never physically robust, he began to grow blueand drawn about the nostrils. Frequently his food would not stay down.He was forced to drive his lagging spirits with a lash. To accomplishthis he had to think often of his girl-wife. Her letters, writtendaily, were a great help; they were like some God-given cordial thatinfused fresh blood into his brain, new strength into his flagginglimbs. Without them he could not have held up.

  With certain definite objects in view he made daily trips toThreadneedle Street. Invariably he walked into the general officesunannounced; invariably he made a new friend before he came out.Peebleby seemed to like him; in fact asked his opinion on certainforms of structure and voluntarily granted the young man two days ofgrace. Two days! They were like oxygen to a dying man.

  Mitchell asked permission to talk to the head draftsman and receivedit, and following their interview he requested the privilege ofdictating some notes regarding the interview. In this way he met thestenographer. When he had finished with her he flipped the girl a goldsovereign, stolen from the sadly melted nine hundred and twenty.

  As Mitchell was leaving the office the Director General yielded to akindly impulse and advised his new acquaintance to run over to Parisand view the Exposition.

  "You can do your figuring there just as well as here," said he."I don't want your trip from Chicago to be altogether wasted, Mr.Mitchell."

  Louis smiled and shook his head. "I can't take that Exposition backwith me, and I can take this contract. I think I'll camp with my bid."

  In the small ho
urs of that night he made a discovery thatelectrified him. He found that the most commonly used section in hisspecifications, a twelve-inch I-beam, was listed under the Englishcustom as weighing fifty-four pounds per foot, whereas thestandardized American section, which possessed the same carryingstrength, weighed four pounds less. Here was an advantage of eightper cent. in cost and freight! This put another round of the ladderbeneath him; he was progressing well, but as yet he had learnednothing about his competitors.

  The next morning he had some more dictation for Peebleby'sstenographer, and niched another sovereign from his sad littlebank-roll. When the girl gave him his copy he fell into conversationwith her and painted a picture of Yankeeland well calculated to keepher awake nights. They gossiped idly, she of her social obligations,he of the cyanide-tank business--he could think of nothing else totalk about. Adroitly he led her out. They grew confidential. Sheadmitted her admiration for Mr. Jenkins from Edinburgh. Yes, Mr.Jenkins's company was bidding on the Krugersdorpf job. He was muchnicer than Mr. Kruse from the Brussels concern, and, anyhow, thoseBelgian firms had no chance at this contract, for Belgium waspro-Boer, and--well, she had heard a few things around the office.

  Mitchell was getting "feed-box" information. When he left he knewthe names of his dangerous competitors as well as those whom, in alllikelihood, he had no cause to fear. Another step! He was gainingground.

  In order to make himself absolutely certain that his figures would below, there still remained three things to learn, and they were mattersupon which he could afford to take no slightest chance of mistake.He must know, first, the dates of those other bids; second, themarket-price of English steel at such times; and, third, the cost offabrication at the various mills. The first two he believed couldbe easily learned, but the third promised to afford appallingdifficulties to a man unfamiliar with foreign methods and utterlylacking in trade acquaintances. He went at them systematically,however, only to run against a snag within the hour. Not only did hefail to find the answer to question number one, but he could find nomarket quotations whatever on structural steel shapes such as enteredinto the Krugersdorpf job.

  He searched through every possible trade journal, through readingrooms and libraries, for the price of I-beams, channels, Z-bars, andthe like; but nowhere could he even find mention of them. His failureleft him puzzled and panic-stricken; he could not understand it. Ifonly he had more time, he reflected, time in which to learn the usagesand the customs of this country. But time was what he had not. He wastired, very tired from his sleepless nights and hours of daylightstrain--and meanwhile the days were rushing past.

  While engaged in these side labors, he had, of course, been workingon his draftsmen friends, and more assiduously even than upon hisblue-prints. On Tuesday night, with but one more day of grace ahead ofhim, he gave a dinner to all of them, disregarding the fact that hisbank-roll had become frightfully emaciated.

  For several days after that little party blue-printing in theRobinson-Ray office was a lost art. When his guests had dined and hadsettled back into their chairs, Mitchell decided to risk all upon onethrow. He rose, at the head of the table, and told them who he was. Heutterly destroyed their illusions regarding him and his position withComer & Mathison, he bared his heart to those stoop-shouldered, shabbyyoung men from Threadneedle Street and came right down to the ninehundred and twenty dollars and the girl. He told them whatthis Krugersdorpf job meant to him and to her, and to the fourtwenty-dollar bills in Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

  Those Englishmen listened silently. Nobody laughed. Perhaps it was thesort of thing they had dreamed of doing some day, perhaps there wereother girls in other tiny furnished flats, other hearts wrapped up insimilar struggles for advancement. They were good mathematicians, itseemed, for they did not have to ask Mitchell how the nine hundredand twenty was doing, or to inquire regarding the health of the othereighty. One of them, a near-sighted fellow with thick lenses, arosewith the grave assertion that he had taken the floor for the purposeof correcting a popular fallacy; Englishmen and Yankees, he declared,were not cousins, they were brothers, and their interests ever hadbeen and ever would be identical. He said, too, that England wantedto do business with America, and as for this particular contract, notonly did the British nation as a whole desire America to secure it,but the chaps who bent over the boards at No. 42-1/2 ThreadneedleStreet were plugging for her tooth and nail. His hollow-chestedcompanions yelled their approval of this statement, whereupon Mitchellagain arose, alternately flushing and paling, and apologized for whathad happened in 1776. He acknowledged himself ashamed of the 1812affair, moreover, and sympathized with his guests over their presenttrouble with the Boers. When he had finished they voted him the besthost and the best little cyanide tank-builder known to them--and theneverybody tried to tell him something at once.

  They told him among other things that every bid except his had been infor two weeks, and that they were in the vault under the care of Mr.Pitts, the head draftsman. They promised to advise him if any new bidscame in or if any changes occurred, and, most important of all, theytold him that in England all structural steel shapes, instead of beingclassified as in America, are known as "angles," and they told himjust how and where to find the official reports giving the price ofthe same for every day in the year.

  The word "angles" was the missing key, and those official marketreports formed the lock in which to fit it. Mitchell had taken severalmighty strides, and there remained but one more step to take.

  When his guests had finally gone home, swearing fealty, and declaringthis to be the best dinner they had ever drunk, he hastened back tohis room, back to the desert of blueprints and to the interminablecolumns of figures, and over them he worked like a madman.

  He slept two hours before daylight, then he was up and toiling again,for this was his last day. Using the data he had gathered the nightbefore, he soon had the price of English and Scottish steel at thetime the last bids were closed. Given one thing more--namely, the costof fabrication in these foreign shops, and he would have reduced thishazard to a certainty, he would be able to read the prices containedin those sealed bids as plainly as if they lay open before him. Buthis time had narrowed now to hours.

  He lunched with John Pitts, the head draughtsman, going back to pickup the boomerang he had left the week before.

  "Have you gone over my first bid?" he asked, carelessly.

  "I have--lucky for you," said Pitts. "You made a mistake."

  "Indeed! How so?"

  "Why, it's thirty per cent. too low. It would be a crime to give youthe business at those figures."

  "But, you see, I didn't include the sub-structure. I didn't have timeto figure that." Mitchell prayed that his face might not show hiseagerness. Evidently it did not, for Pitts walked into the trap.

  "Even so," said he; "it's thirty per cent. out of the way. I madeallowance for that."

  The boomerang had finished its flight!

  Once they had separated, Mitchell broke for his hotel like ahunted man. He had made no mistake in his first figures. The greatKrugersdorpf job was his; but, nevertheless, he wished to make himselfabsolutely sure and to secure as much profit as possible for Comer& Mathison. Without a handsome profit this three-million-dollar jobmight ruin a firm of their standing.

  In order to verify Pitts's statement, in order to swell his proposedprofits to the utmost, Mitchell knew he ought to learn the "overhead"in English mills; that is, the fixed charges which, added to shopcosts and prices of material, are set aside to cover office expenses,cost of operation, and contingencies. Without this informationhe would have to go it blind, after a fashion, and thereby riskpenalizing himself; with it he could estimate very closely the amountsof the other bids and insure a safe margin for Comer & Mathison. Inaddition to this precaution he wished to have his own figures checkedup, for even under normal conditions, if one makes a numerical errorin work of this sort, he is more than apt to repeat it time and again,and Mitchell knew himself to be deadly tired--almost on the v
ergeof collapse. He was inclined to doze off whenever he sat down; theraucous noises of the city no longer jarred or startled him, and hissurroundings were becoming unreal, grotesque, as if seen through thespell of absinthe. Yes, it was necessary to check off his figures.

  But who could he get to do the work? He could not go to ThreadneedleStreet. He thought of the Carnegie representative and telephoned him,explaining the situation and his crying need, only to be told thatno one in that office was capable of assisting him. He was referred,however, to an English engineer who, it was barely possible, couldhandle the job. In closing, the Carnegie man voiced a vague warning:

  "His name is Dell, and he used to be with one of the Edinburghconcerns, so don't let him know your inside figures. He might spring aleak."

  A half-hour later Mitchell, his arms full of blue-prints, was in Mr.Dell's office. But the English engineer hesitated; he was very busy;he had numerous obligations. Mitchell gazed over the threadbare roomsand hastily estimated how much of the nine hundred and twenty dollarswould be left after he had paid his hotel bill. What there was to domust be done before the next morning's sun arose.

  "This job is worth ten sovereigns to me if it is finished tonight," hedeclared, briskly.

  Mr. Dell hesitated, stumbled, and fell. "Very well. We'll begin atonce," said he.

  He unrolled the blue-prints, from a drawer he produced a sliding-rule.He slid this rule up; he slid it down; he gazed through his glassesat space; he made microscopic Spencerian figures in neat rows andcolumns. He seemed to pluck his results from the air with necromanticcunning, and what had taken the young man at his elbow days and nightsof cruel effort to accomplish--what had put haggard lines about hismouth and eyes--the engineer accomplished in a few hours by meansof that sliding-rule. Meanwhile, with one weary effort of will, hisvisitor summoned his powers and cross-examined him adroitly. Here wasthe very man to supply the one missing link in the perfect chain;but Mr. Dell would not talk. He did not like Americans nor Americanmethods, and he made his dislike apparent by sealing his lips.Mitchell played upon his vanity at first, only to find the man whollylacking in conceit. Changing his method of attack, Mitchell built afire under Mr. Dell. He grilled everything British, the people, theirsocial customs, their business methods, even English engineers, andhe did it in a most annoying manner. Mr. Dell began to perspire.He worked doggedly on for a while, then he arose in defense of hiscountry, whereupon Mitchell artfully shifted his attack to Englishsteel-mills. The other refuted his statements flatly. At length theengineer was goaded to anger, he became disputative, indignant,loquacious.

  When Louis Mitchell flung himself into the dark body of his cab,late that evening, and sank his legs knee-deep into those hatefulblue-prints, he blessed that engineer, for Dell had told him all hewished to know, all he had tried so vainly to discover through othersources. The average "overhead" in British mills was one hundred andthirty per cent., and Dell _knew_.

  The young man laughed hysterically, triumphantly, but the sound wasmore like a tearful hiccough. To-morrow at ten-thirty! It was nearlyover. He would be ready. As he lolled back inertly upon the cushionshe mused dreamily that he had done well. In less than two weeks, in aforeign country, and under strange conditions, without acquaintance orpull or help of any sort, he had learned the names of his competitivefirms, the dates of their bids, and the market prices ruling on everypiece of steel in the Krugersdorpf job when those bids were figured.He had learned the rules governing English labor unions; he knew allabout piece-work and time-work, fixed charges and shop costs, togetherwith the ability of every plant figuring on the Robinson-Ray contractto turn out the work in the necessary time. All this, and more, hehad learned legitimately and without cost to his commercial honor.Henceforth that South-African contract depended merely upon his ownability to add, subtract, and multiply correctly. It was his just assurely as two and two make four--for salesmanship is an exact science.

  The girl would be very happy, he told himself. He was glad that shecould never know the strain it had been.

  Again, through the slow, silent hours of that Wednesday night,Mitchell fought the fatigue of death, going over his figurescarefully. There were no errors in them.

  Dawn was creeping in on him when he added a clean thirty-per-cent.profit for his firm, signed his bid, and prepared for bed. But hefound that he could not leave the thing. After he had turned in hebecame assailed by sudden doubts and fears. What if he had made amistake after all? What if some link in his chain were faulty? What ifsome other bidder had made a mistake and underfigured? Such thoughtsmade him tremble. Now that it was all done, he feared that he had beenoverconfident, for could it really be possible that the greatest steelcontract in years would come to him? He grew dizzy at the picture ofwhat it meant to him and to the girl.

  He calmed himself finally and looked straight at the matter, sittingup in bed, his knees drawn up under his chin. While so engaged hecaught sight of his drawn face in the mirror opposite and startedwhen he realized how old and heavy with fatigue it was. He determinedsuddenly to shave that profit to twenty-nine per cent. and makeassurance doubly sure, but managed to conquer his momentary panic.Cold reasoning told him that his figures were safe.

  Louis Mitchell was the only salesman in Mr. Peebleby's office thatmorning who did not wear a silk hat, pearl gloves, and spats. Inconsequence the others ignored him for a time--but only for a time.Once the proposals had been read, an air of impenetrable gloom spreadover the room. The seven Scotch, English, and Belgian mourners staredcheerlessly at one another and then with growing curiosity at theyoung man from overseas who had underbid the lowest of them by sixthousand pounds sterling, less than one per cent. After a while theybowed among themselves, mumbled something to Mr. Peebleby, andwent softly out in their high hats, their pearl gloves, and theirspats--more like pall-bearers now than ever.

  "Six hundred and thirty-seven thousand five hundred pounds sterling!"said the Director General. "By Jove, Mitchell, I'm glad!" They shookhands. "I'm really glad."

  "That's over three million dollars in real money," said the youth."It's quite a tidy little job."

  Peebleby laughed. "You've been very decent about it, too. I hope tosee something of you in the future. What?"

  "You'll see my smoke, that's all."

  "You're not going back right away?"

  "To-morrow; I've booked my passage and cabled the girl to meet me inNew York."

  "My word! A girl! She'll be glad to hear of your success."

  "Oh, I've told her already. You see, I knew I'd won."

  The Director General of the Robinson-Ray Syndicate stared in openamazement, but Mitchell hitched his chair closer, saying:

  "Now let's get at those signatures. I've got to pack."

  That night Louis Mitchell slept with fifteen separate contracts underhis pillow. He double-locked the door, pulled the dresser in front ofit, and left the light burning. At times he awoke with a start andfelt for the documents. Toward morning he was seized with a suddenfright, so he got up and read them all over for fear somebody hadtampered with them. They were correct, however, whereupon he read thema second time just for pleasure. They were strangely interesting.

  On the _Deutschland_ he slept much of the way across, and by thetime Liberty Statue loomed up he could dream of other things thanblue-prints--of the girl, for instance.

  She had enough left from the eighty dollars to bring her to New Yorkand to pay for a week's lodging in West Thirty-fourth Street, thoughhow she managed it Mitchell never knew. She was at the dock, ofcourse. He knew she would be. He expected to see her with her armsoutstretched and with the old joyous smile upon her dimpled face, and,therefore, he was sorely disappointed when he came down the gang-plankand she did not appear. He searched high and low until finally hediscovered her seated over by the letter "M," where his trunk waswaiting inspection. There she was, huddled up on a coil of rope,crying as if her heart would break; her nerve was gone, along with thefour twenty-dollar bills; she was afraid to face him, afraid
there hadbeen an error in his cablegram.

  Not until she lay in his arms at last, sobbing and laughing, herslender body all aquiver, did she believe. Then he allowed her to feelthe fifteen contracts inside his coat. Later, when they were in a cabbound for her smelly little boarding-house, he showed them to her. Inreturn she gave him a telegram from his firm--a telegram addressed asfollows:

  Mr. LOUIS MITCHELL,

  General Sales Manager, Comer & Mathison, New York City.

  The message read:

  That goes. COMER.

  Mitchell opened the trap above his head and called up to the driver:"Hey, Cabbie! We've changed our minds. Drive us to the Waldorf--at agallop."