Alexander Hulings explained what he could of Claypole's absence.
“It probably doesn't matter,” the other returned. “I was told the forge wasn't run, for some foolishness or other.” He turned to go.
“What did you want with him—with Tubal Cain?” Conrad Wishon asked.
“Twenty-five tons of blooms.”
“Now if this was ten years back——”
The young man interrupted the smith, with a gesture of impatience, and turned to go. Hulings asked Conrad Wishon swiftly:
“Could it be done here? Could the men be got? And what would it cost?”
“It could,” said Wishon; “they might, and a thousand dollars would perhaps see it through.” Hulings sharply called the retreating figure back. “Something more about this twenty-five tons,” he demanded.
“For the Penn Rolling Mills,” the other crisply replied. “We're asking for delivery in five weeks, but that might be extended a little—at, of course, a loss on the ton. The quality must be first grade.”
Wishon grunted.