“I ain't said it,” answered Benson briefly, and with that he walked out of the office.
At the end of just two weeks, work was at a standstill in the shops, and on the two most important contracts Bendy had ever been able to secure. Then he sent for Tom Benson. His messenger—it was Williams, the bookkeeper—found the mechanic in his room at his boarding-house. He was sitting by his open window in his shirtsleeves, his elbows on his knees, his chin sunk in his palms, and the stem of a short black pipe clinched between his teeth. He heard Williams quietly, then he said:
“Tell Bendy he knows where to find me when he wants to see me. I sha'n'. stir out of here for two weeks more.”
This word being conveyed to Bendy, he swore he would close the shops rather than again hold any communication with the obdurate mechanic.
“Me go to him, when it's been me paying him wages? I guess when his money's gone he'll think differently about who's to do the running back and forth! I'll quit business before I'll jump at the snapping of his fingers!”
But a week later when it seemed this was the very thing he would be forced to do, he sent his bookkeeper once again to the mechanic.
“Sort of smooth him down, Williams!” he said. “He always was a cross-grained cuss! Make him the prettiest speech you can, but fetch him back herewith you, we're just playing hell with them two jobs!”
And Williams found Tom Benson still by his open window, still in his shirt-sleeves, still with his chin in his palms, and still smoking. He interpreted Mr. Bendy's request for a speedy audience with all possible tact.
The mechanic remained unmoved.
“Bendy knows where to find me when he needs me; and don't you come back here, Williams, unless you want I should throw you down them steps.”