“What next?” he asked himself. He had, so to speak, cut off the hand that directed, the head that planned. They must be replaced, and Jim himself had not the technical knowledge to fill the lack. He went to the door and looked out; there, grinning up at him, was little Pete, pail in hand. “Hello, Misser Boss!” said the boy. “I take it you’ve been here right along,” said Jim, good-naturedly. “All da time. I hear you fire Misser Wattrous. Whee!” “I take it I have your approval.” “Uh-huh,” said Pete, clearly not at all understanding what approval was. “I tell Italian mans. Dey laugh. You real boss. Speakaqueek—bang! Italian mans lika dat.” “Fine. Now, Pete, who’s the next boss—who else besides Mr. Wattrous?” “Oh, Misser Nelson. He boss. Work wit’ da hammer and saw, too.” “Nelson, to be sure.” Nelson, Jim remembered, was the head millwright in the old plant. “Where is he, Pete?” “I show. You come.” Pete led the way. As they neared the main building a young man not older than Jim emerged from the door. His overalls were covered with grease and sawdust, a rule protruded from a narrow pocket; quite evidently he was of the carpentering clan. “Dat Misser Nelson,” yelled Pete. “Oh, Nelson!” called Jim. The young man paused and turned a handsome, sharply cut face toward Jim. It was a dependable face, a likable face, a face, if the steel-blue eyes were to be believed, which belonged to a man whose action would follow swiftly his words, or even precede them. He did not reply to Jim’s hail, but stood waiting. “Nelson,” said Jim, “my name is Ashe. My father has gone to California and I am in charge here.” He paused briefly, and Nelson extended his hand with a suddenly brightening smile. “Glad to know you, Mr. Ashe.” “I’ve just fired Wattrous. Somebody’s got to take charge in his place. Can you take hold and make this mill run?” “Yes.” “Good! You’re boss. What are we paying you?” “Four dollars a day.” “Wages. Your salary will be thirty-five dollars a week. When can we begin to turn over?” “Mr. Wattrous figured four weeks.” “We’ll start to manufacture in three. Put on more men if necessary. Now let’s see where we’re at.” Nelson showed Jim through the mill, explaining what must be done here, what was lacking there, why this machine sat so, why another machine must be driven from counter-shafting. He told him about the conveyer system, about everything, for mills and machinery were alike strange and mysterious to Jim. “Is the general plan good?” “Yes. But if it were my mill I would—” “It is your mill. Make it run and make it run right. I’m going back to the office to have a look-see at the books and files.” As he sat in the revolving-chair he felt again a wave of astonishment at himself. Was this Jim Ashe—the same Jim Ashe who got off the train at Diversity an hour ago? Most certainly it was, and yet how little that Jim Ashe knew about himself. “I guess I’m due for a personal inventory,” he said to himself.