“What next?” he asked himself. He had, so to speak, cut off the hand that directed, the head that planned. They must be replaced, and Jim himself had not the technical knowledge to fill the lack. He went to the door and looked out; there, grinning up at him, was little Pete, pail in hand.
“Hello, Misser Boss!” said the boy.
“I take it you’ve been here right along,” said Jim, good-naturedly.
“All da time. I hear you fire Misser Wattrous. Whee!”
“I take it I have your approval.”
“Uh-huh,” said Pete, clearly not at all understanding what approval was. “I tell Italian mans. Dey laugh. You real boss. Speakaqueek—bang! Italian mans lika dat.”
“Fine. Now, Pete, who’s the next boss—who else besides Mr. Wattrous?”
“Oh, Misser Nelson. He boss. Work wit’ da hammer and saw, too.”
“Nelson, to be sure.” Nelson, Jim remembered, was the head millwright in the old plant. “Where is he, Pete?”
“I show. You come.”