“Never mind the card; I can’t trust you with another one.  Just show me the trail and I’ll take it myself.  That’s a way we have in America.”

A moment later he was knocking at a door emblazoned, “Director General.”  Without awaiting an invitation, he turned the knob and walked in.  Before the astonished Mr. Peebleby could expostulate he had introduced himself and was making known his mission.

Fortunately for Mitchell, Englishmen are not without a sense of humor.  The announcement that this young man had come all the way from Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A., to bid on the Krugersdorpf work struck Mr. Peebleby as amusing.  Not only was the idea in itself laughable, but also the fact that a mere beardless youth should venture to figure on a contract of such gigantic proportions quite convulsed the Director General, and in consequence he smiled.  Then fearing that his dignity had been jeopardized, he announced politely but firmly that the proposition was absurd, and that he had no time to discuss it.

“I’ve come for that job, and I’m going to take it back with me,” Mitchell averred, with equal firmness.  “I know more about this class of work than any salesman you have over here, and I’m going to build you the finest cluster of cyanide tanks you ever saw.”

“May I ask where you obtained this comprehensive knowledge of tank construction?” Mr. Peebleby inquired, with some curiosity.

“Sure!” Mitchell ran through a list of jobs with which the Director General could not have been unfamiliar.  He mentioned work that caused that gentleman to regard him more respectfully.  For a time questions and answers shot back and forth between them.

“I tell you, that is my line,” Mitchell declared, at length.  “I’ll read any blueprints you can offer.  I’ll answer any queries you can formulate.  I’m the accredited representative of a big concern, and I’m entitled to a chance to figure, at least.  That courtesy is due me.”

“I dare say it is,” the other reluctantly agreed.  “I’m very busy, but if that is the quickest way to end the discussion I’ll give you the prints.  I assure you, nevertheless, it is an utter waste of your time and mine.”  He pushed a button and five minutes later a clerk staggered back into the room with an armful of blueprints that caused Mitchell to gasp.

“The bid must be in Thursday at ten-thirty,” Peebleby announced.

“Thursday?  Why, good Lord!  That’s only three days, and there’s a dray-load of drawings!”

“I told you it was a waste of time.  You should have come sooner.”

Mitchell ran through the pile and his heart grew sick with dismay.  There were drawings of tanks, drawings of substructures and superstructures in every phase of construction—­enough of them to daunt a skilled engineer.  He realized that he had by no means appreciated the full magnitude of this work, in fact had never figured on a job anything like this one.  He could see at least a week’s hard, constant labor ahead of him—­a week’s work to be done in three days.  There was no use trying; the time was too short; it was a physical impossibility to formulate an intelligent proposition in such a short length of time.  Then to Mitchell’s mind came the picture of a wretched, golden-haired girl clinging to the iron fence of the Pennsylvania depot.  He gathered the rolls into his arms.