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On his desk, neatly machined, was the first
tentative shell-case made in the mill machine-shop, an experiment
rather than a realization.
Hutchinson, the general manager, was not alone. Opposite him, very
neatly dressed in his best clothes, his hat in his hand and a set
expression on his face, was one of the boss rollers of the steel
mill, Herman Klein. At Clayton's entrance he made a motion to
depart, but Hutchinson stopped him.
"Tell Mr. Spencer what you've been telling me, Klein," he said
curtly.
Klein fingered his hat, but his face remained set.
"I've just been saying, Mr. Spencer," he said, in good English, but
with the guttural accent which thirty years in America had not
eliminated, "that I'll be leaving you now."
"Leaving! Why?"
"Because of that l" He pointed, without intentional drama, at the
shell-case. "I can't make those shells for you, Mr. Spencer, and
me a German."
"You're an American, aren't you?"
"I am, sir. It is not that. It iss that I - " His face worked.


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