Ordinarily Mitchell would not have allowed himself the extravagance of a cab, but to-day the cars were too slow.  He wondered how the girl would take this calamity, their very first.  As a matter of fact, she divined the news even before he had voiced his exuberant greetings, and, leading him into the neat little front room, she curled up at his side, demanding all the reasons for his unexpected recall.  He saw that she was wide-eyed and rather white.  When he had broken the bad news she inquired, bravely: 

“What is your plan, boy?”

“I haven’t any.”

“Nonsense!”

“I mean it.  What can I do?  I don’t know anything except the steel business.  I can lick my weight in wildcats on my own ground—­but—­” The wife nodded her blonde head in complete agreement.  “But that lets me out,” he concluded, despondently.  “I can sell steel because I know it from the ground up; it’s my specialty.”

“Oh, we mustn’t think about making a change.”

“I’ve handled more big jobs than any man of my age and experience on the road, and yet—­I’m fired.”  The husband sighed wearily.  “I built that big pipe line in Portland; I sold those smelters in Anaconda, and the cyanide tanks for the Highland Girl.  Yes, and a lot of other jobs, too.  I know all about the smelter business, but that’s no sign I can sell electric belts or corn salve.  We’re up against it, girlie.”

“Have people quit building smelters?”

“They sure have—­during this panic.  There’s nothing doing anywhere.”

The wife thought for a moment before saying, “The last time you were home you told me about some Western mining men who had gone to South Africa—­”

“Sure!  To the Rand!  They’ve made good, too; they’re whopping big operators, now.”

“You said there was a large contract of some sort coming up in London.”

“Large!  Well, rather!  The Robinson-Ray job.  It’s the biggest ever, in my line.  They’re going to rebuild those plants the Boers destroyed.  I heard all about it in Montana.”

“Well!” Mrs. Mitchell spoke with finality.  “That’s the place for you.  Get the firm to send you over there.”

“Um-m!  I thought about that, but it scared me out.  It’s too big.  Why, it’s a three-million-dollar job.  You see, we’ve never landed a large foreign contract in this country as yet.”  Mitchell sat up suddenly.  “But say!  This panic might—­” Then he relaxed.  “Oh, what’s the use?  If there were a chance the firm wouldn’t send me.  Comer would go himself—­he’d take the whole outfit over for a job like that.  Besides, it’s too big a thing for our people; they couldn’t handle it.”

Mrs. Mitchell’s eyes were as round as buttons.  “Three million dollars’ worth of steel in one contract!  Do you think you could land it if you went?”

“It’s my line of work,” the young man replied, doubtfully.  “I’ll bet I know more about cyanide tanks than any salesman in Europe, and if I had a decent price to work on—­”