The worker let his eyes turn to the backs of his heavy hands, guiltily. "Look, Mister Parr, I didn't mean...."
Parr silenced him with an over-drawn gesture. "No, no," he said, his voice normal and conciliatory. "I meant, we might be able to use a man like you in our big plant in the East." He snarled inwardly at himself for the unnecessary note of harshness before: it was too soon for that.
Suddenly stammering with excitement, the worker said, "My name's George ... George Hickle ... George Hickle, Mister Parr. I got good letters from back home about my workin', sir."
"Where do you live, George?"
"Out on Bixel.... Just up from Wilshire, you know, where...."
"I meant the number of the house, George."
"Oh," George told him.
Parr wrote it down. "George Hickle, uh-huh."
"I'll be mighty obliged, Mister Parr, if you'll keep me in mind."
"Yes. Well. Good afternoon, Hickle. You ought to be getting back to your work now, hadn't you?"