"There is no place in Deep Harbor that calls itself a restaurant where you can get anything fit to eat, Mr. Ebling." I uttered this solemnly.
"Good God!" he exclaimed.
"But if you will lunch with me today, I can promise you satisfaction. I can also arrange a card for you at the club. It has a rather remarkable chef."
His gratitude was overpowering. Then we proceeded to sign endless papers, with some exchanges of difficulties between the lawyers of each party. I had a full power of attorney from my father to sign for him, and whenever a lawyer said "Here, if you please," I wrote my name with a flourish. At the end a certified check was handed to me, and I passed it on to Knowlton. Then Knowlton and I stood up. Our tenure was over.
As Mr. Ebling followed me out, I caught Knowlton stealing a last look at his little office. He lingered a moment by the shop door and watched the men at the machines, as we arrived downstairs. Since we were still to be in Deep Harbor for another month, there was no ceremony of saying good-bye. Some of the men, nevertheless, came up to shake hands with Knowlton and me. I hated to turn these workmen over to another management, and I saw Knowlton was thinking the same thing. He had built up an extraordinarily efficient and loyal set of men,—"hand-picked," he called them. I had a distinct impression that Mr. Ebling would not be so good a man to work for. His Van Dyke beard was against him. Also his eyes lacked a twinkle; in its stead was a look which showed that Mr. Ebling was the most important object to be considered.
The three of us walked away together, Mr. Ebling picking his way with some displeasure through the choking dust of our Twelfth Street:
"Where are we going, Ted? To the club?" Knowlton asked, as I kept on down Twelfth Street.
"Mr. Claybourne was kind enough to suggest that the three of us take luncheon with him at his residence. I thought we could walk to Myrtle Boulevard and point out some of our important plants to Mr. Ebling on the way. Over there," I said, turning to Ebling, "is the Deep Harbor Packing Company. Beyond is the Lakeside Casting and Manufacturing Company."
"Good God," exclaimed Mr. Ebling, stumbling over an empty tin can that lay in the middle of the street. Knowlton's grin widened and deepened. It grew positively diabolic as Mr. Ebling took a silk handkerchief from his sleeve and began flicking dust from his spats.
"Don't they ever water this confounded street?" he asked.