to experience that feeling when that steady, unblinking gaze was
turned upon them. And yet it was just the clear, unwavering look
with which Bartholomew Berg, farmer boy, had been wont to gaze out
across the fresh-plowed fields to the horizon beyond which lay the
city he dreamed about.

"Tell me your side of it," said Bartholomew Berg tersely.

"All of it?" Jock's confidence was returning.

"Till I stop you."

"Well," began Jock. And standing there at the side of the Old
Man's desk, his legs wide apart, his face aglow, his hands on his
hips, he plunged into his tale.

"It started off with a bang from the minute I walked into the
office of the plant and met Snyder, the advertising manager. We
shook hands and sparked--just like that." He snapped thumb and
finger. "What do you think! We belong to the same frat! He's '93.
Inside of ten minutes he and I were Si-washing around like mad. He
introduced me to his aunt. I told her who I was, and all that. But
I didn't start off by talking business. We got along from the
jump. They both insisted on showing me through the place.
I--well,"--he laughed a little ruefully,--"there's something
about being shown through a factory that sort of paralyzes my
brain. I always feel that I ought to be asking keen, alert,
intelligent questions like the ones Kipling always asks, or the
Japs when they're taken through the Stock Yards. But I never can
think of any. Well, we didn't talk business much. But I could see