"You go on ten, in Long's place," he said, gruffly, as he entered the mill.
Morrison stared at the retreating foreman.
"What in hell," he began; then, putting things together in his mind, he shook his head, and followed the foreman into the mill.
The superintendent was again interrupted by the rasping of hobnailed shoes on the office floor and the startled creak of the office railing as a large, loose-jointed man leaned heavily against it. His trousers, tucked into a pair of high-laced, large-eyed shoes, were belted at the waist in a conspicuous roll. A faded gray shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, disclosed a red undershirt and muscular arms. A well-shaped head with grey streaked hair, and a smooth, imperturbable face was shaded by a battered sombrero that was thrust back and turned squarely up in front.
The superintendent's smile had nothing puzzling now.
"Hello, Zephyr. Got another Camp Bird?"
"Flying higher'n a Camp Bird this time."
"How's that?"
"Right up to the golden gates this time, sure. It's straight goods. St. Peter ain't going to take no post-prandial siestas from now on. I'm timbering my shots to keep from breaking the sky. Tell you what, I'm jarring them mansions in heaven wuss'n a New York subway contractor them Fifth Avenue palaces." Zephyr paused and glanced languidly at the superintendent.
Firmstone chuckled.