"Ye—ye know him, Jawnny?"
"Know him! Why, every mathematician in this country knows and envies the logic of Horsesense Hank. Are you going to work here with us, Mr. Cleaver?"
"Well," squirmed Hank embarrassedly, "that's f'r Mr. MacDonald to say. Seems sorta like he don't want me."
But MacDonald, the ozone spilled from his Genoa jib, now backed water like a duck in a whirlpool.
"Bide a wee!" he puffed hastily. "Dinna be in sooch a roosh, yoong mon. If Jawnny recommends ye, there's a place in this organeezation f'r ye. Ond f'r y'r friend, too. Now, let's talk ways and means—"
Thus it was that Hank Cleaver and I became employees of the Northern Bridge, Steel and Girder Company. The job to which Hank was finally assigned was that of Estimator. I was given a desk in the Advertising Department offices, though to tell the truth I was no great shakes as a ballyhoo artist for structural steel girders and forged braces, having previously boosted the merits of nothing more substantial than a 200-lb. line and a 175-lb. backfield.
But we got along all right. Until one day, after we had been working there for a couple of weeks, the boss called Hank into his private office. I tagged along. Old Mac had a visitor. A slim, prim man with a ramrod up his spinal column and pince-nez on a beak that would dull a razor.
"Cleaver," said Hector MacDonald, "I want you should meet Mr. Grimper. Mr. Grimper, shake honds wi' Hank Cleaver, my Chief Estimator." The Old Man, I saw was happy as a lark about something; happy and excited, too. "Mr. Grimper," said he, "is a Government mon, Hank. From the R.O.T.C.—"
"O.P.M.," corrected Grimper sourly. "At the moment, I also unofficially represent the O.E.M., the O.P.A., and the S.P.A.B.—"