"Got to be, or I couldn't handle a brush here," says Hartley. "This is a union job."
"But—but how long has this been goin' on, Hartley?" I asks.
"I've held my card for nearly three months now," says he. "No, I haven't been painting here all that time. In fact, I came here only this morning. The president of our local shifted me down here for—for reasons. I'm a real painter, though."
"You look it, I must say," says I. "Like it better than being in the bond room?"
"Oh, I'm not crazy about it," says he. "Rather smelly work. But it pays well. Dollar an hour, you know, and time and a half for overtime. I manage to knock out sixty or so a week. Then I get something for being secretary of the Union."
"Huh!" says I. "Secretary, are you? How'd you work up to that so quick?"
"Oh, they found I could write fairly good English and was quick at figures," says he. "Besides, I'm always foreman of the gang. Do all the color mixing, you know. That's where my art school experience comes in handy."
"That ought to tickle the old man," says I. "Seen him yet?"
"No," says Hartley, "but I want to. Is he here?"
"Sure," says I. "He's just outside. He'll be in soon."