“Stow that talk!” broke in Tom. “That’s all nonsense! We need an expert accountant in addition to you, Ned. And while I can’t offer your father as responsible a position as he held with the investment concern, still I’d be glad to have him come here.”
“He’ll come, Tom, I’ll guarantee that. I’ll telephone him.”
So it was arranged, and that afternoon Mr. Newton was given a desk near that of his son in the office.
For several days wheels were rapidly humming in the Swift shops. As Tom had said, orders were coming in with a rush, and this, together with work on new inventions, kept the whole place busy.
“How’s your Bolshevist coming on, Tom?” asked Ned one day.
“Oh, Barsky? Why, he seems to be doing very well, so Jackson tells me,” was the answer. “He minds his own business and he’s a regular wizard at pattern making. He hasn’t had a chance to show what sort of a machinist he is, but I reckon he’ll do. In fact, Jackson says, in spite of his rather terrorizing appearance, that the man is a find.”
“Glad of it,” replied the young manager. “It’s always a sort of satisfaction to find you’ve misjudged a man on the right side. Now in regard to this order from the Simplex Supply Company, if we ship them a hundred gross of those dashers that ought to keep them supplied for a month, and we can then use the machinery to turn out those candy-wrapping machines for the Cocoa Company.”
“All right, Ned, I’ll leave that to you. I’ve got troubles of my own here. Hello, that can’t be the noon whistle, can it?” cried Tom, as a blast smote the air. He looked up at the clock on the wall, noting it was barely eleven, and then Ned, after a glance from the window, cried:
“It’s the fire alarm, Tom! There’s a blaze in the pattern shop!”
A moment later several voices took up the shouts of: