"Well, not eggsackly. I don't figger they'd want me in the fightin'
forces, me bein' skinny like I am. But folks say I'm right quick with
math'matics an' things like that, so if I c'n be of any help to my
country--"
Hank was not exaggerating a bit. Almost everyone on the Midland campus,
including sweet little me, had known more formal education than H.
Cleaver. Eighty-five per cent of the faculty members dangled alphabets
after their names till they looked like government projects, but Hank
could give them all a running start and beat them silly on any question
requiring the use of good, old-fashioned common sense.
A marveling commentator had awarded Hank the name of "Scientific
Pioneer" for his uncanny ability to reach answers to problems
intuitively, without knowing or understanding the so-called "natural
laws" involved. Hank's aptitude at things mechanical, his infinitely
accurate mathematical computations and homely approach to abstract
ponderables, had promoted him from a rural turnip patch to the Chair of
General Sciences at our (alleged) institute of higher learning.[1]
[Footnote 1: "_The Scientific Pioneer_," AMAZING STORIES, March,
1940.--Ed.]
"It ain't," scowled Hank, "as if I was a hard man to git along with.
Gosh knows I'm easy-goin' enough--"
* * * * *
There was no gainsaying that. Hank was as quiet and gentle as a
Carnation cow. The fact that he had, despite his humble background, won
the favor and affections of bilious old H. Logan MacDowell, president
of Midland, proved his power to Win Friends. And the fact that he,
handicapped by a rawboned homeliness that would have discouraged any
scarecrow, had won the heart and hand of Prexy's daughter Helen, a lass
ardently pursued by every male in four counties, proved beyond a doubt
his ability to influence people.
"--but they jest ain't no gittin' along," continued Hank, "with that
there Hitler guy. The more he gits the more he wants. An' now that
him an' his Japanee pals is forced _us_ into it, I'm agonna offer my
services to whoever c'n use me."
"And where would that be, Hank?"
"Why, I was thinkin' o' one o' them plants that make war stuff," he
said. "They got plenty o' problems, nowadays, tryin' to reorganize f'r
defense work, changin' work methods, expandin' their facilities, an'
so on. There's that Northern Bridge, Steel and Girder Comp'any, f'r
instance--"
"But, Hank," I reminded him, "how about Helen?"
"I reckon Helen an' me'll jest have to wait a spell, Jim. Atter all,
they's a job to be done. We got to pitch in an' do it, or they ain't
gonna be no Helen or no Hank Cleaver, or mebbe even no U.S.A. f'r us to
git married in."
So that was that. When Hank Cleaver gets those grim lines about
the corners of his mouth, there's nothing you can do to stop him.
I helped him pack his battered old suitcase, then we went to say
goodbye to Helen. She reacted quite as I had expected. She listened
in astonishment to Hank's awkward explanation. Then she expostulated
loudly. Then she sniffled a little. Finally she wept for a minute,
kissed Hank moistly and told him she was proud of him.
"Anyway," she said, "you'll come home every week-end to see me, won't
you?" So Hank promised he would, and off we went. Yeah--that's right.
We. I had decided to volunteer, too. That's me all over. Snoopy Jim
Blakeson; can't keep my nose out of anything.
* * * * *
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_?"
"I'm Jim Blakeson. I was the publicity man for Midland University,"
I explained, "but now I'm at your disposal. Where Hank goes, I go.
I don't believe you quite realize who Mr. Cleaver is, sir. He is
'Horsesense Hank'."
"And I'm 'Horsesense Hector'!" snorted old MacDonald witheringly. "So
what?" It was obvious that he was no newspaper reader, or he would have
known Hank's reputation.
"Mr. Cleaver," I told him severely, "is a teacher of General Sciences
at our school. He is well versed in a score of subjects germane to your
business. Mathematics, civil and chemical engineering ballistics--"
"Motheematics," bellowed MacDonald, "be domned! The NBS&G needs no
figgerer! I've gawt one o' the cleverest ones in the coontry wairkin'
f'r me. My future son-in-law, Jawnny Day! _Jawnny!_" He strode to a
doorway, flung it open, bawled his command. In the doorway appeared a
nice looking kid with fine lips and eyes. "Jawnny, this mon claims to
be a--"
But young Day had stepped forward eagerly, extending a hand to Hank.
"Mr. Cleaver! This is an unexpected pleasure!"
MacDonald's jaw played tag with his weskit buttons.
"Ye--ye know him, Jawnny?"
"Know him! Why, every mathematician in this country knows and envies
the logic of Horsesense Hank. Are you going to work here with us, Mr.
Cleaver?"
"Well," squirmed Hank embarrassedly, "that's f'r Mr. MacDonald to say.
Seems sorta like he don't want me."
But MacDonald, the ozone spilled from his Genoa jib, now backed water
like a duck in a whirlpool.
"Bide a wee!" he puffed hastily. "Dinna be in sooch a roosh, yoong mon.
If Jawnny recommends ye, there's a place in this organeezation f'r ye.
Ond f'r y'r friend, too. Now, let's talk ways and means--"
* * * * *
Thus it was that Hank Cleaver and I became employees of the Northern
Bridge, Steel and Girder Company. The job to which Hank was finally
assigned was that of Estimator. I was given a desk in the Advertising
Department offices, though to tell the truth I was no great shakes
as a ballyhoo artist for structural steel girders and forged braces,
having previously boosted the merits of nothing more substantial than a
200-lb. line and a 175-lb. backfield.
But we got along all right. Until one day, after we had been working
there for a couple of weeks, the boss called Hank into his private
office. I tagged along. Old Mac had a visitor. A slim, prim man with a
ramrod up his spinal column and _pince-nez_ on a beak that would dull a
razor.
"Cleaver," said Hector MacDonald, "I want you should meet Mr. Grimper.
Mr. Grimper, shake honds wi' Hank Cleaver, my Chief Estimator." The Old
Man, I saw was happy as a lark about something; happy and excited, too.
"Mr. Grimper," said he, "is a Government mon, Hank. From the R.O.T.C.--"
"O.P.M.," corrected Grimper sourly. "At the moment, I also unofficially
represent the O.E.M., the O.P.A., and the S.P.A.B.--"
"No motter," chuckled MacDonald joyfully. "'Tis all the same alphabet.
Hank, laddy, we've been drofted! F'r the duration o' the war the auld
mon in the top hat is takin' our plont over f'r defense wairk. From
now on we're not buildin' bridges and girrders; we're rollin' armament
plate and makin' shells to bomb to the de'il-and-gane yon bloody
scoundrel wi' the foony moostache! What d'ye think o' _that_?"