"Notcherally," grudged Old Mac.
"Then—" Primly—"you must accept my decisions on questions of policy. Mr. Cleaver, you are hereby granted two weeks in which to clear up your affairs around this plant, at the end of which time your services will no longer be needed. I trust you will find suitable employment elsewhere...."
And he smiled, a mean, oily little smile. The heel!
So that, lads and lassies, was that. Hank was o-u-t on called strikes, but if you think he just quit trying to do his share because a fortnight's deadline was hanging over his head, you don't know old turnip-torturer Cleaver.
The Northern Bridge, Steel and Etcetera still needed estimating, so Hank labored straight on through till the last day, lending his individual—if unwanted—talents. Thus it was that on the Saturday afternoon he drew his final paycheck he had still not cleared out his desk drawers and lockers for the next incumbent.
He told me so at dinner. I asked, "Well, what's the program, Hankus? After we feed we grab a choo-choo?"
But he just stared at me. "We, Jim? But you wasn't laid off."
"Birds of a feather," I told him, "flop together. I go where you go."
He shook his head.