“Young man,” he said, “blooms I made would hardly need blistering to be called steel.”
“I'm Philip Grere,” the newcomer stated, “of Grere Brothers, and they're the Penn Rolling Mills. We want good blooms soon as possible and it seems there's almost none loose. If you can talk iron, immediate iron, let's get it on paper; if not, I have a long way to drive.”
When he had gone Conrad Wishon sat staring, with mingled astonishment and admiration, at Hulings.
“But,” he protested, “you don't know nothing about it!”
“You do!” Alexander Hulings told him; he saw himself as a mind, of which Wishon formed the trained and powerful body.
“Perhaps Jim will come back,” the elder man continued.
“That is a possibility,” Alexander admitted. “But I am going to put every dollar I own into the chance of finishing those twenty-five tons.”
The smith persisted: “But you don't know me; perhaps I'm a rascal and can't tell a puddling furnace from a chafery.”
Hulings regarded him shrewdly.
“Conrad,” he demanded, “can Tubal Cain do it?”