He flung out of the little room and made straight for the
Old Man's office.
Seated at his great flat table desk, Bartholomew Berg did not look
up as Jock entered. This was characteristic of the Old Man.
Everything about the chief was deliberate, sure, unhurried. He
finished the work in hand as though no other person stood there
waiting his pleasure. When at last he raised his massive head he
turned his penetrating pale blue eyes full on Jock. Jock was
conscious of a little tremor running through him. People were apt
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.
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