“This is awful!” he said. “What with one thing and another, we’re heels over head in work, and I got to fool with these books that I don’t know anything at all about, and—”
He broke of to pick up the telephone, which had jingled.
“Yes. … This is Soules. … We’re working on them now. I’ll give ’em to you by Monday noon at the least. … I know we promised them for yesterday, but … I know! I know! But the boss’s death set us back. Explain that to Mr. Chrostwaite. And … And I’ll promise you that we’ll give them to you Monday morning, sure!”
Soules slapped the receiver irritably on its hook and looked at me.
“You’d think that since it was his own car that killed the boss, he’d have decency enough not to squawk over the delay!”
“Chrostwaite?”
“Yes—that was one of his clerks. We’re printing some leaflets for him—promised to have ’em ready yesterday—but between the boss’s death and having a couple new hands to break in, we’re behind with everything. I been here eight years, and this is the first time we ever fell down on an order—and every damned customer is yelling his head off. If we were like most printers they’d be used to waiting; but we’ve been too good to them. But this Chrostwaite! You’d think he’d have some decency, seeing that his car killed the boss!”
I nodded sympathetically, slid a cigar across the desk, and waited until it was burning in Soules’ mouth before I asked:
“You said something about having a couple new hands to break in. How come?”
“Yes. Mr. Newhouse fired two of our printers last week—Fincher and Key. He found that they belonged to the I.W.W. , so he gave them their