"There is Mr. Snowden waiting for you."
"Never mind him. His bite isn't half so bad as his bark."
The men piled into the car, whereupon Manager Snowden unloosed the vials of his wrath because their reports were not in. To his tirade no one gave the slightest heed. The men went methodically to work, writing out their reports to which they signed their names, folded the papers, and tossed them on the manager's desk without a word of explanation.
For a few moments there was silence in the office while the manager was going over the reports. All at once there was a roar.
"Pig! Come here!"
Rosie got down from the pile of paper on which he had been sitting, taking his time about doing so, and, wearing a broad grin, strolled to the office at the other end of the car.
"What's the trouble now?" demanded Rosie.
"Trouble? Trouble? That's the word. It's trouble all the time.
Where are your brains?"
"In my head, I suppose," grinned Rosie.
"No!" thundered the manager. "They're in your feet. All you know how to do is to kick. You're a woodenhead; you're no good."