"You're talking to him now. I'm him—it—them. I'm the party! I told you I knew the game."
There was a brief silence, then Mr. Peebleby inquired, "By the way, who helped you figure those prints?"
"Nobody."
"You did that alone, since Monday morning?" The speaker was incredulous.
"I did. I haven't slept much. I'm pretty tired."
There was a new note in Mr. Peebleby's voice when he said: "Jove! I've treated you badly, Mr. Mitchell, but—I wonder if you're too tired to tell my engineers what you told me just now? I should like them to hear you."
"Trot them in." For the first time since leaving this office three days before, Mitchell smiled. He was getting into his stride at last. After all, there seemed to be a chance.
There followed a convention of the draftsmen and engineers of the
Robinson-Ray Syndicate before which an unknown American youth
delivered an address on "Cyanide Tanks. How to Build Them; Where to
Buy Them."
It was the old story of a man who had learned his work thoroughly and who loved it. Mitchell typified the theory of specialization; what he knew, he knew completely, and before he had more than begun his talk these men recognized that fact. When he had finished, Mr. Peebleby announced that the bids would not be opened that day.
The American had made his first point. He had gained time in which to handle himself, and the Robinson-Ray people had recognized a new factor in the field. When he was again in the Director General's room, the latter said: