He seemed to regard this quantitative answer as entirely satisfying.
"I know," I said, "but what in hell does he do?"
He again looked at the floor, considered, and spat. "He works around the furnace," he said.
I saw that I should have to accept this as a prospectus. So I began negotiations. "I want a job," I said. "I come from Mr. Towers. Have you got anything now?"
He looked away again and said, "They want a man on the night-shift. Can you come at five?"
My heart leaped a bit at "the night-shift." I thought over the hours-schedule the employment manager had rehearsed: "Five to seven, fourteen hours, on the night-week."
"Yes," I said.
We had just about concluded this verbal contract, when a chorus of "Heows" hit our eardrums. Men make such a sound in a queer, startling, warning way, difficult to describe. I looked around for the charging machine, or locomotive, but neither was in range.
"What are they 'Heowing' about?" I thought violently to myself.