“You mean that Russian, Barsky?” asked Mr. Swift sharply.
“I think that’s his name,” the man replied. “We call him Whiskers in the shop.”
“There, Tom, I told you not to hire that man!” said the young inventor’s father in a low voice.
“But he had nothing to do with the fire, Dad,” explained Tom. “He wasn’t even near when it happened. I inquired about that. The thing happened because a plumber’s blow torch which one of the men was using to burn off some stuff overturned when a pulley broke and fell on it. Nobody’s fault at all. It was just one of those accidents you can never foresee. No one knew the pulley was split. The man using the blow torch had taken all precautions, but he couldn’t count on a pulley falling on it from above. And Barsky wasn’t even there.”
“Um! Well, I don’t like him just the same,” said Mr. Swift.
“I guess it’s all over,” remarked Ned to his chum when it was seen that the last, smouldering spark was out.
“Yes,” agreed Tom. “I must get back to my desk. I want to finish those computations by noon if I can, for I have to go to Mansburg this afternoon.”
“I’d better check up on this fire,” observed Ned. “There’ll have to be a report made of it to the insurance company, small as the damage was, and we’re entitled to a claim.”
“I’ll leave it to you,” returned Tom. “You’d better splice that hose, Koku,” he said, with a smile. “And look out for your horse, Rad. He might kick at some of the men. He’s a cross old beast.”
“He won’t lessen I tells him to. An’ they ain’t but one pusson I’d like to hab him plant his hoofs on!” snorted the colored man.