"But, Hank," I reminded him, "how about Helen?"
"I reckon Helen an' me'll jest have to wait a spell, Jim. Atter all, they's a job to be done. We got to pitch in an' do it, or they ain't gonna be no Helen or no Hank Cleaver, or mebbe even no U.S.A. f'r us to git married in."
So that was that. When Hank Cleaver gets those grim lines about the corners of his mouth, there's nothing you can do to stop him. I helped him pack his battered old suitcase, then we went to say goodbye to Helen. She reacted quite as I had expected. She listened in astonishment to Hank's awkward explanation. Then she expostulated loudly. Then she sniffled a little. Finally she wept for a minute, kissed Hank moistly and told him she was proud of him.
"Anyway," she said, "you'll come home every week-end to see me, won't you?" So Hank promised he would, and off we went. Yeah—that's right. We. I had decided to volunteer, too. That's me all over. Snoopy Jim Blakeson; can't keep my nose out of anything.
The Northern Bridge, Steel and Girder Co. was not so far from our town—only fifty miles—but it was like moving into a strange, new world to pass through the portals of that concern. Clatter and bang and hubbub ... men roaring orders ... staccato tattoo of rivets hammering home ... the keen, metallic smell of molten metal ... the bite of rasps and the chuff-chuff of panting locomotives ... these were the symphonic diapason of our new headquarters.
About us, whistles blew, throngs of sweating workmen bustled about their fathomless tasks, racing to and fro in an endless stream. Beyond sturdy buildings black with age there ranged yellow rows of newer, flimsier structures.
The place had a strangely jejeune look. The look of an adolescent who has outgrown his knee-britches, but has not yet the bulk and substance to fill his new long pants. Still this was a husky youngster. He would grow. He would grow to fill his new trousers. We both felt that.
We found the office of the company owner. Its doors were guarded by a bevy of underlings who protested hopelessly that, "Mr. MacDonald was too busy to see anyone." We brushed them aside and found ourselves, at last, before the irascible president of the NBS&G.
He stared at us in amazement. He was a huge, brawny Scotsman with eyebrows like feather-dusters and a jutting jaw that might have been poured from one of his ingots. After he got his breath: