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“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.

The American had made his first point. He had gained time in which to handle himself, and the Robinson-Ray people had recognized a new factor in the field. When he was again in the Director General’s room, the latter said:

“I think I will have you formulate a new bid along the lines you have laid down.”

“Very well.”

“You understand, our time is up. Can you have it ready by Saturday, three days from now?”

Mitchell laughed. “It’s a ten days’ job for two men.”

“I know, but we can’t wait.”

“Then give me until Tuesday; I’m used to a twenty-four-hour shift now. Meanwhile I’d like to leave these figures here for your chief draftsman to examine. Of course they are not to be considered binding.”

“Isn’t that a bit–er–foolish?” inquired Peebleby? “Aren’t you leaving a weapon behind you?”

“Yes, but not the sort of a weapon you suspect,” thought Mitchell. “This is a boomerang.” Aloud, he answered, lightly: “Oh, that’s all right. I know I’m among friends.”

When his request was granted he made a mental note, “Step number two!”

Again he filled a cab with drawings, again he went back to the Metropole and to maddening columns of new figures–back to the monotony of tasteless meals served at his elbow.

But there were other things besides his own bid to think of now. Mitchell knew he must find what other firms were bidding on the job, and what prices they had bid. The first promised to require some ingenuity, the second was a Titan’s task.

Salesmanship, in its highest development, is an exact science. Given the data he desired, Louis Mitchell felt sure he could read the figures sealed up in those other bids to a nicety, but to get that data required much concentrated effort and much time. Time was what he needed above all things; time to refigure these myriad drawings, time to determine when the other bids had gone in, time to learn trade conditions at the competitive plants, time to sleep. There were not sufficient hours in the day for all these things, so he rigidly economized on the least important, sleep. He laid out a program for himself; by night he worked in his room, by day he cruised for information, at odd moments around the dawn he slept. He began to feel the strain before long. Never physically robust, he began to grow blue and drawn about the nostrils. Frequently his food would not stay down. He was forced to drive his lagging spirits with a lash. To accomplish this he had to think often of his girl-wife. Her letters, written daily, were a great help; they were like some God-given cordial that infused fresh blood into his brain, new strength into his flagging limbs. Without them he could not have held up.

With certain definite objects in view he made daily trips to Threadneedle Street. Invariably he walked into the general offices unannounced; invariably he made a new friend before he came out. Peebleby seemed to like him; in fact asked his opinion on certain forms of structure and voluntarily granted the young man two days of grace. Two days! They were like oxygen to a dying man.