“About two hundredweight.”
“Do you always send them out in crates of the same kind?”
“Always. The crate is specially made for the purpose. Unfortunately, it is an odd size and cannot be used for any of the other products.”
This was interesting. Did it, French wondered, show an internal knowledge of the firm’s methods on the part of “Stephenson”?
“Now about the actual despatch. You say an order comes from the accounts department when anything is to be sent out. Could I see this particular order?”
Mr. Fogden looked through a file, finally producing a tiny sheet of paper. But small as was the chit, it was comprehensive. On it were given not only all details of the duplicator and the address of the consignee, but also Mr. Fogden’s O.K., the initials of the storekeeper who had given out the machine and the crate, of the packer who had packed it, of the carter who had taken it to the station, and of the railway goods clerk who had received it, with the dates when all these things had been done.
“By Jove!” French remarked when he had taken all this in. “You don’t leave much to chance in this establishment!”
“We believe in individual responsibility,” Mr. Fogden explained. “If anything goes wrong we can usually plant the blame on the right shoulders.”
“Well, it’s a help to me, at all events. Can I see these men who have initialled this order?”
“Certainly. Come down to the stores.” Mr. Fogden led the way to a large room furnished with multitudinous bins containing thousands of articles neatly stacked and each labelled with its code number and with a card showing the stock. Owing to its opposite walls being composed almost entirely of glass, there was a brilliant light everywhere. French marvelled at the cleanliness and tidiness of everything and expressed his admiration of the way the place was kept.