The Northern Bridge, Steel and Girder Co. was not so far from our town--only fifty miles--but it was like moving into a strange, new world to pass through the portals of that concern. Clatter and bang and hubbub ... men roaring orders ... staccato tattoo of rivets hammering home ... the keen, metallic smell of molten metal ... the bite of rasps and the _chuff-chuff_ of panting locomotives ... these were the symphonic diapason of our new headquarters. About us, whistles blew, throngs of sweating workmen bustled about their fathomless tasks, racing to and fro in an endless stream. Beyond sturdy buildings black with age there ranged yellow rows of newer, flimsier structures. The place had a strangely _jejeune_ look. The look of an adolescent who has outgrown his knee-britches, but has not yet the bulk and substance to fill his new long pants. Still this was a husky youngster. He would grow. He would grow to fill his new trousers. We both felt that. We found the office of the company owner. Its doors were guarded by a bevy of underlings who protested hopelessly that, "Mr. MacDonald was too busy to see anyone." We brushed them aside and found ourselves, at last, before the irascible president of the NBS&G. He stared at us in amazement. He was a huge, brawny Scotsman with eyebrows like feather-dusters and a jutting jaw that might have been poured from one of his ingots. After he got his breath: "And who," he demanded thunderously, "micht _you_ be?" "'Lo, Mr. MacDonald," said Hank amiably. "My name's Hank Cleaver." "And who," roared the old man, "micht 'Hank Cleaver' be to coom abargin' into my office wi'oot inveetation? Speak oop, mon! Time is money!" "'Pears to me," pointed out Hank reasonably, "as how if time's money, like you say, you'd stop wastin' time askin' foolish questions. It don't matter much _who_ I am. The p'int is: whut did I come for. Ain't it?" Old MacDonald's fiery face turned two shades redder. "Why, ye impairtenant yoong scoundrel--" he roared; then he paused. He said thoughtfully, "Ye're richt. So what _did_ ye coom for?" "A job," said Hank. "A jawb! Ye mean t' tell me ye fairced y'r way into _my_ office to osk f'r a jawb? The employment office lies doon the hall, yoong mon, twa doors t' y'r richt--" Hank fidgeted uncomfortably. "Well, that ain't eggsackly the kind o' job I had in mind, Mr. MacDonald. Whut I mean is--" * * * * * I decided to stick in my two cents. Bashful as Hank is, it would have taken him all day to explain. "Hank means, Mr. MacDonald, that he would like to offer his services in an executive capacity." "Exec--!" This time MacDonald couldn't even finish the word. He pawed his graying thatch wildly. "Ye dinna say so? Ond would the title o' preseedent sotisfy him, ye think? Or mayhop he'd ruther be Chairmon o' the Board o' Deerectors? Who are _you_?"