But somehow or other shoes weren't getting shipped on time—or anything like on time. Three to four weeks late came to be the customary thing. And customers were, needless to say, kicking like steers.
So the bright young man was taken on to get things ironed out.
He pitched in with vim and vigor.
The first morning's mail brought a dozen complaints of slow deliveries. People were practically barefoot out in Kansas and Ohio. They were waiting for those shoes.
"Ha!" said the new production manager, "Nous verrons." Which means, even in English, "Now, for what we are about to see, make us truly thankful." And he went away from there to see why those orders weren't out the door.
He was out to prove something. And Providence—Rhode Island—had supplied him with enough ammunition to shoot a manufacturing organization full of holes.
Each order was traced. One was in the shipping room.
"What's holding this up?" he asked the shipping clerk.
"Haven't had time to ship it. And we got other shoes that have been waiting longer than those. It's a feast or a famine down here. Some days we just can't get 'em out."
"You're working short-handed. Get a couple more packers. You've got to get those shoes out. The customers are hollering like hell. Get 'em out!"