MR. CARLTON MAKES A WAGER AND WINS
As the boys sat at dinner that evening Mr. Carlton inquired about
their trip to the refinery, and with a humorous twinkle in his eye
added:
"I do not suppose you would care to put in another day on factory
visiting, would you?"
"What do you mean, Dad?" asked Bob.
"I was wondering whether you would like to see where some of our
sugar goes," was his father's answer. "Would you be interested to
take a tour through the Eureka Candy Factory to-morrow and learn how
candy is made?"
"I should," responded Bob promptly.
"And you, Van?" demanded Mr. Carlton with a kindly smile.
"I'd like it of all things," said Van, returning the smile frankly.
"Very well. You shall spend to-morrow at the Eureka Company's
factory. They are big customers of ours and when I telephoned them
today they told me they would be glad to have you come, and promised
to show you all about."
"Are you sure they would want me to come, Mr. Carlton?" asked Van,
looking squarely into the eyes of the older man.
"Why not? You're a chum of Bob's, aren't you?"
"Yes. But, you see, that isn't all."
With one searching glance Mr. Carlton scanned the lad's face.
"No, Van," he replied with quiet emphasis, "that is not all. You are
more than Bob's chum--you are a friend of mine, too."
The boy flushed.
"I'd like to think so, Mr. Carlton."
"I want you to know so, Van. I happened to see Mr. Hennessey," he
went on in a lower tone, "and he related to me that incident at the
factory. Of course he did not understand it, but I did--instantly.
I appreciated your sense of honor, my boy."
"I wanted to be square."
"You were a gentleman in the very best sense of the word."
A great gladness glowed in Van's eyes, for terse as was the phrase
it bore to him the very recognition he had coveted from Bob's
father. Mr. Carlton, however, did not enlarge upon the subject, but
casting it swiftly into the background asked:
"Are you sure you both would rather spend your last morning in New
York going through a candy factory than doing anything else?
Factories are tiresome places, you must remember."
"But a candy factory could never be tiresome!" asserted Bob.
His father laughed.
"There are just as many miles in a candy factory as any other," he
replied. "Any of the men who work there would tell you that, I
fancy."
"But they are such nice miles!" argued Bob. "Don't you say we go,
Van?"
"I sure do. I want to see how they dip chocolates," Van answered.
"It's all aboard to-morrow morning, then," Mr. Carlton said as he
lit his after-dinner cigar.
"There's one thing, Dad, that it's only fair to warn you about,"
called Bob, turning on the lowest step of the stairway to address
his father. "Our expedition may cost you something. You see they
probably won't let us eat any candy at the factory; we'll just have
to walk round with our eyes open and our hands crammed into our
pockets to keep from swiping it. All the time we'll be getting up a
tremendous candy appetite, and the minute we get outside we'll just
have to make a bee-line for the first candy shop in sight and get
filled up. So you must be prepared to cash in for refreshments."
The corners of Mr. Carlton's mouth twisted into an enigmatic smile.
"I'll agree to pay for as much candy as you care to eat," he said,
accepting the challenge without objection.
Bob stared at him.
"Do you mean it?"
"Certainly. Why do you question it?"
"But"--faltered Bob in amazement, "you never promised anything like
that before."
"I may never promise it again, so make the most of it," was the dry
retort.
Although Bob did not reply he by no means forgot the unprecedented
offer, and that the memory of it might be equally fresh in his
father's mind he spoke of it once again when the three parted the
next morning.
"Well, Dad, we're off for the Bonbon World," he called as he passed
the library door where his father sat looking over the morning's
mail. "Remember you are going to O.K. any candy bills we run up."
"I'm backing you for all you can eat," nodded Mr. Carlton.
"Dad sure is game!" Bob declared as he and Van stepped into the
waiting motor-car and began their ride to the factory. "He'll play
it out, too. He never goes back on his word."
"I'm afraid he'll be in for something then," grinned Van.
Both boys were more than ever convinced of the truth of this remark
when they entered the factory and were greeted by the mingled aroma
of chocolate, wintergreen and molasses.
"I could eat ten pounds of chocolates this minute!" exclaimed Van.
"Go easy. Remember, we've got to wait until we have made the entire
tour of this factory before we can have so much as a single caramel.
You mustn't go getting up your appetite so soon."
"But smell it, Bobbie! Why, the whole place is one mellifluous
smudge. What do you say we chuck Colversham and get a job here?
Think of having pounds of candy--tons of it--around all the time!
Wouldn't it be a snap!"
Van was cut short in his rhapsody by the approach of a pleasant
faced lad of about his own age who was dressed from head to foot in
white and wore a little white cap, across the front of which was
printed in gold letters the word _Eureka_.
"Are you Mr. Carlton?" he inquired of Van.
"I'm not, but my chum is."
"We were expecting you," the boy answered, turning to Bob. "I am to
show you and your friend through the works. Will you kindly step
this way?"
Tagging at the heels of their white-robed guide Bob and Van made
their way through a large storeroom stacked to the ceiling with
fancy boxes of various sizes, shapes, and colors.
"Give up Colversham, Bob, and maybe you could come here and wear a
white suit every day and personally conduct visitors through the
works; perhaps they'd even pay you in bonbons," whispered Van.
"He must be about our age," returned Bob. "I wonder what they pay
him."
"I'd lots rather have had a man take us round," said Van softly. "Do
you suppose this fellow knows anything?"
All the way up in the elevator the two visitors watched the white-suited
boy curiously and when they alighted in the large, sun-flooded room
at the top of the factory they were still speculating as to his age
and how much he earned, and marveling that so young a representative
should have been selected to explain to them the candy industry.
The room they entered was high and airy and at the further end of
it, moving amid steam that rose from a score of copper kettles, a
great many men in spotless white were hurrying about.
"It is here that we start our candy making," said the boy who was
showing Bob about. "Into those copper kettles we put our mixture of
confectioners' sugar--confectioners' A, we call it--and corn syrup;
this combination forms the basis of almost every variety of candy
made. The kettles, as you will see, are heated by gas, which gives
a steady flame, and at the side of each one we have a thermometer by
which we can tell the exact temperature of the mixture. There is
also a glass disc set in the side of every kettle to enable us to
watch the boiling. The sugar and corn syrup are melted together and
cooked at the temperature which after repeated experiments has
proved the most successful for our purpose--one that will neither
burn nor stick, or make the cooled fondant too thin to keep its
shape."
The boy spoke in the slow, measured tones of one who had told the
tale many times before and was quite accustomed to his task.
Bob glanced at Van.
Their respect for the lad was rising.
"How much does one of these kettles hold?" Bob asked.
"About six hundred pounds."
"And you fill all of them every day?" demanded Van in astonishment.
"Several times over," was the answer. "It takes a lot of this ground
material for the different kinds; some of it has other ingredients
mixed with it later, and some is beaten, flavored, and colored for
the fillings of chocolates."
"But who on earth eats so much candy?" ejaculated Bob.
"I don't know," responded the boy wearily. "I'm sure I don't."
"What?"
"I don't believe I'd touch a piece of candy for a hundred dollars,"
he continued. "I am sick of the sight of it. Candy from morning to
night--candy, candy, candy! Candy everywhere! Nothing but candy."
Bob and Van eyed him unbelievingly.
Could a boy be human and feel that way?
"Everybody here gets into the same state of mind," the lad went on.
"When the green hands come they are crazy about the stuff for about
a couple of days; then it is all over. You couldn't hire them to
eat. Every few weeks the different employees are allowed to buy two
pounds for themselves at the wholesale price, but you would be
surprised to see how few of them do it. If they get it you can be
pretty certain that it is to give away, for they'd never eat it
themselves."
His two listeners stared incredulously.
Their guide led them across the room.
"So," said he, reverting once more to the kettles and the
thermometer, "our candy is not made by guesswork, you see. Sugar
costs too much to risk having such a large batch as a kettleful
spoiled. We boil it by the thermometer, and when it is at just the
right point we take it off and put it into these coolers, where it
thickens and is reduced to a workable temperature. That which is to
be used as filling is then shifted into these big cylindrical cans
that have inside them a series of revolving fingers and here the
candy is beaten until quite smooth; whatever flavoring or coloring
matter is needed is beaten into it."
As the machinery whirled the boys stood watching the beaters.
"Some of this beaten sugar will be colored pink, flavored with rose
or wintergreen, and used for the centers of chocolate; some will
have maple flavoring, some vanilla, some lemon. Nuts will be stirred
into some of the rest of it. There is an almost endless number of
ways in which it may be varied. Come over here and see them
preparing the centers and getting them ready to cover with
chocolate."
It was an interesting process.
Shallow wooden trays filled with dry corn-starch passed beneath a
machine which left in them rows of empty holes the size of the heart
of a chocolate cream. The trays then moved on until they stopped
just under a nozzle, which ran exactly the right amount of liquid
filling into each hole. The dryness of the corn-starch prevented the
mixture from flowing together. As soon as every hole in the tray was
filled with fondant it was set away to cool and an empty tray
substituted. When the little centers were hard enough they were
taken out of the corn-starch moulds, and after being put upon
traveling strips of fine wire netting, melted chocolate was poured
over them. The wire frames sped along like miniature moving
sidewalks, their contents drying and cooling on the way. In the
meantime the superfluous chocolate dripped through the netting into
a trough beneath and was collected to be melted over again. On went
the finished chocolates until they reached the packing-room, where
girls removed them from the frames, sorted them, and put them into
boxes.
"These are not what is known as hand-dipped or fork-dipped
chocolates," explained the boy. "Those are higher priced, because
they require individual attention, and the material put into them is
more expensive. To make those the girls take the centers and
submerge each one in melted chocolate with a dipping-fork, finishing
the pieces with a certain little twist or decoration on top; it
requires no small amount of skill to make this top-knot, which not
only serves to render the candy more attractive but to distinguish
one variety of filling from another. Each kind has its own
particular decoration. After some practice any of us might, I
suppose, learn to make the twist on a chocolate once; but to make
that precise thing each time and never vary it would be quite a
different matter. It is important the pattern should be uniform,
since both the dippers and the packers must know what is inside; in
addition those who sell the candy must know. It is no easy task.
After the chocolates are finished _Eureka_ is stamped on the
bottom of every piece and they are ready to be sold."
"I don't see what prevents your candy from sticking to everything,"
observed Van thoughtfully.
[Illustration: "IT IS NO EASY TASK"]
"Blasts of cool air that come through those overhead pipes. We can
turn on the current whenever we wish. Whenever the girls who are
packing candy find that it is becoming soft they turn on a current
of cold air to chill and harden it; we often use these cool blasts,
too, when handling candies in the process of making. Such kinds as
butter-scotch, hoarhound, and the pretty twisted varieties stick
together very easily. If they are allowed to become lumpy or marred
they are useless for the trade and have to be melted over."
"What are those men over there doing?" inquired Bob, pointing to a
group of workmen who were stirring a seething mixture of nuts and
molasses.
"Some of them are making peanut brittle, some caramels; and in the
last kettle I believe they are boiling hoarhound candy. See! The
last man is ready to empty his upon the table. Suppose we go over
and watch him."
They reached the spot just in time to see the kettle lifted and the
hot candy poured out upon the metal top of the table, where it
spread itself like a small, irregular pond. At once the workman in
charge took up a steel bar not unlike a metal yardstick and began
pressing down the mass to a uniform thickness. This done he ran the
bar deftly beneath and turned the vast piece over just as one would
flop over some gigantic griddle-cake. He continued to change it from
side to side, pressing it down in any spot where it was too thick,
but never once touching it with his hands. He then cut off a long
narrow strip and fed it into a machine at his elbow, the boys
regarding him expectantly. Suddenly, to their great surprise, the
formless ribbon of candy that had gone into the machine began to
come forth at the other end in prettily marked discs, each with the
firm name stamped upon it.
"Hoarhound tablets, you see," observed the boy. "The Italian who is
making peanut brittle has flattened his on the table in the same
fashion and marked it into bars which later will be cut and wrapped
in paraffine paper."
"I never realized so much candy was manufactured in one day,"
exclaimed Bob as they went down in the elevator.
"Oh, this isn't much," returned the boy. "We are running light just
now. You should come a few weeks before Christmas if you want to see
things hum here."
"I guess that would be a good time for visitors to keep out,"
returned Bob as they smilingly bade good-bye to their guide and
started home in the motor-car.
As the automobile glided into Fifth Avenue Van said:
"Look, Bobbie, there's a candy shop! I suppose all that stuff in the
window was made in exactly the same way as those things we saw to-day,
don't you?"
But Bob did not turn his head.
Instead he replied:
"Don't say candy to me. I do not want to lay eyes on another piece
of it for a week!"
"Nor I!" Van echoed. "Do you wonder that boy at the factory feels as
he does? I guess your father can keep his money so far as we are
concerned. He'll have no candy bills from us."
* * * * *
In the meantime Mr. Carlton waited for the tremendous bonbon bill
that had threatened to reduce his bank account, and when it was not
forthcoming he nodded his head and chuckled quietly to himself.