“In all my experience I never sent out a blueprint which some youthful salesman could not improve upon.  Generally the younger the salesman the greater the improvement.”

In Mitchell’s own parlance he “beat Mr. Peebleby to the punch.”  “If that’s the case, you’ve got a rotten line of engineers,” he frankly announced.

“Indeed!  I went over those drawings myself.  I flattered myself that they were comprehensive and up-to-date.”  Mr. Peebleby was annoyed, nevertheless he was visibly interested and curious.

“Well, they’re not,” the younger man declared, eying him boldly.  “For instance, you call for cast-iron columns in your sub-and super-structures, whereas they’re obsolete.  We’ve discarded them.  What you save in first cost you eat up, twice over, in freight.  Not only that, but their strength is a matter of theory, not of fact.  Then, too, in your structural-steel sections your factor of safety is wrongly figured.  To get the best results your lower tanks are twenty inches too short and your upper ones nine inches too short.  For another thing, you’re using a section of beam which is five per cent. heavier than your other dimensions call for.”

The Director General sat back in his chair, a look of extreme alertness replacing his former expression.

“My word!  Is there anything else?” He undertook to speak mockingly, but without complete success.

“There is.  The layout of your platework is all wrong—­out of line with modern practice.  You should have interchangeable parts in every tank.  The floor of your lower section should be convex, instead of flat, to get the run-off.  You see, sir, this is my line of business.”

“Who is your engineer?” inquired the elder man.  “I should like to talk to him.”

“You’re talking to him now.  I’m him—­it—­them.  I’m the party!  I told you I knew the game.”

There was a brief silence, then Mr. Peebleby inquired, “By the way, who helped you figure those prints?”

“Nobody.”

“You did that alone, since Monday morning?” The speaker was incredulous.

“I did.  I haven’t slept much.  I’m pretty tired.”

There was a new note in Mr. Peebleby’s voice when he said:  “Jove!  I’ve treated you badly, Mr. Mitchell, but—­I wonder if you’re too tired to tell my engineers what you told me just now?  I should like them to hear you.”

“Trot them in.”  For the first time since leaving this office three days before, Mitchell smiled.  He was getting into his stride at last.  After all, there seemed to be a chance.

There followed a convention of the draftsmen and engineers of the Robinson-Ray Syndicate before which an unknown American youth delivered an address on “Cyanide Tanks.  How to Build Them; Where to Buy Them.”

It was the old story of a man who had learned his work thoroughly and who loved it.  Mitchell typified the theory of specialization; what he knew, he knew completely, and before he had more than begun his talk these men recognized that fact.  When he had finished, Mr. Peebleby announced that the bids would not be opened that day.