shipping-room efficiency. We used to use baskets, pulled by
a rope. It's Mr. Fenger's idea."

Efficiency, efficiency, efficiency. Fenger had made it a
slogan in the Haynes-Cooper plant long before the German
nation forced it into our everyday vocabulary. Michael
Fenger was System. He could take a muddle of orders, a
jungle of unfilled contracts, a horde of incompetent
workers, and of them make a smooth-running and effective
unit. Untangling snarls was his pastime. Esprit de corps
was his shibboleth. Order and management his
idols. And his war-cry was "Results!"

It was eleven o'clock when Fanny came into his outer office.
The very atmosphere was vibrant with his personality. There
hung about the place an air of repressed expectancy. The
room was electrically charged with the high-voltage of the
man in the inner office. His secretary was a spare, middle-
aged, anxious-looking woman in snuff-brown and spectacles;
his stenographer a blond young man, also spectacled and
anxious; his office boy a stern youth in knickers, who bore
no relation to the slangy, gum-chewing, redheaded office boy
of the comic sections.

The low-pitched, high-powered voice went on inside, talking
over the long-distance telephone. Fenger was the kind of
man who is always talking to New York when he is in Chicago,
and to Chicago when he is in New York. Trains with the word
Limited after them were invented for him and his type. A
buzzer sounded. It galvanized the office boy into instant