"Ah likes biscuits an' Ah likes bread,
Doan' like 'em plastered on mah head,
Craves to have 'em spread around on mah inside,
'Sted of havin' dough a-drippin' off mah hide."
The pier foreman, passing the Wildcat's crew late in the afternoon, paused to look the deal over. "Everything all right?"
"Cap'n, yessuh. Dey's good boys. 'Clined to mope some at fust, but dey got laughin' some way. Since den dey's been movin' 'long."
Without knowing it, the Wildcat had mixed the essence of all the theories of efficiency into one barrel of flour. The results of the administered dose were showing on the tally boards in the freight office at the end of the long pier. The transportation superintendent sent for the pier foreman. "Jim, who is handling the flour into the West King?"
"Young nigger called Wildcat—right name is Marsden. Got him yesterday."
"Keep him forever. The Empire docks tomorrow for a mixed cargo for New Orleans. Sixteen thousand tons. Let this Wildcat boy handle all of it—as long as he lasts."
2.