The second High-Pockets produced a worn bill-fold and extracted a pink union permit.
"I protest this inhuman manipulation of a man's individuality," said the chairman indignantly; "this is outrageous."
I felt better now. I'd been waiting for that. "Let him go to work," I said. "We need an operator today, anyway; Bill Smith has the flu. I will guarantee to pay a man's wages to whomever you say, if this is found to be illegal."
Under the law, there wasn't much they could do. And I had already taken the precaution of retaining the best legal counsel in the city.
I was elated when they went to work. I pumped Dr. Hudson's hand and assured him that we had indeed made spectacular history, and together we could make millions.
The first trouble came an hour later. One of the High-Pocketses—I couldn't tell which one—came into the office. "The foreman sent me up to get some work," he said in his booming voice.
I frowned. What was going on back there? I went back, High-Pockets Jones was working on his own machine. High-Pockets Jones was also working on Bill Smith's machine. I looked up quickly. High-Pockets Jones was also standing beside me.
He smiled. "Catching, isn't it?"
I swallowed, but I knew they were playing tricks. High-Pockets Jones had walked into the cabinet a second time, and his double had worked the controls and produced a third. Well, this could get confusing, but I stayed calm. "You're a floor-man, too, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."