At the office where we went, I was introduced to a Mr. Knowlton, our electrical engineer, who, my father told me, was to be our American manager. He was a shrewd looking man in the early thirties—possibly the late thirties, I couldn't be certain—with crow's feet about the eyes and a disconcerting grin. I saw him look at me sharply out of the corners of his eyes.
The lawyers proclaimed the situation satisfactory and I heard Knowlton give my father his technical opinion concerning the merits of the Deep Harbor Manufacturing Company, which was the name of the property we had come to see about. The factory was situated at Deep Harbor, a thriving factory town on one of the Great Lakes. On the strength of the two reports my father signed the papers, and the Deep Harbor Manufacturing Company became ours.
We were about to leave, when Knowlton turned to my father and said: "By the way, Mr. Jevons, I should like your authority, before you go, to employ a young research chemist for our laboratory out there at the plant. Some one capable of original work."
As Knowlton uttered these words a panic seized me. I knew before my father spoke what he was going to suggest.
"What about letting you have my son here?" I heard my father say. I could feel Knowlton looking me over, and I prayed for an unfavourable verdict.
"Have you had much experience in research work?" Knowlton levelled at me.
"Only a year," I faltered, wishing I could say "None."
Several other searching questions followed, which I answered as best I could. There was a moment's silence, during which I joyfully concluded that Knowlton did not care much for the look of me. It is difficult, now, to explain, but I did not want to go to Deep Harbor. My whole life, with the exception of the four years at college, had been spent in London, and I had no wish to be in any other place.
"Well," I heard Knowlton say, at last. "It is up to you, Mr. Jevons. I guess your son will fit the job."
My father turned to me.