“Why don’t you like the chief electrician?” Henry asked the lad.
“He’s a slave driver. He’s nothing but a crank,” and the lad swore viciously.
“Why do you think he is a crank?” asked Henry.
“He’s too particular,” and again he swore. “And he won’t let anybody touch his blamed old key but himself. You might think he owned it.”
“But just think,” urged Henry. “This outfit is worth ten thousand dollars. If it’s harmed, he is responsible for the damage.”
“Who’d hurt his old wireless? And, anyway, why should he care? It’s Uncle Sam’s, ain’t it?”
Henry was shocked at the lad’s attitude. He wanted to tell him that if Mr. Sharp considered his assistants fully competent to operate the wireless, he would doubtless gladly let them do their full share of the work. But he knew that would lead to a disagreeable argument, if not indeed to an open quarrel, so he passed the matter off by saying, “I suppose he has reasons we don’t know about.”
“Reasons,” sneered the operator. “Sure he has, and I know what they are. He don’t want nobody but himself to get ahead. He wants to make me stay a third-class man. He ain’t willing to let me use the instruments so I can learn more about it. Oh! His reasons are plain enough. He’s got it in for me.”
“How long have you been on the Iroquois?” asked Henry.
“Six months.”