Graham left the conference that morning in a rather exalted mood. The
old mill was coming into its own at last. He had a sense of boyish
triumph in the new developments, a feeling of being a part of big
activities that would bring rich rewards. And he felt a new pride in his
father. He had sat, a little way from the long table, and had watched
the faces of the men gathered about it as clearly and forcibly the
outlines of the new departure were given out. Hitherto "Spencer's" had
made steel only. Now, they were not only to make the steel, but they
were to forge the ingots into rough casts; these casts were then to
be carried to the new munition works, there to be machined, drilled,
polished, provided with fuses, which "Spencer's" were also to make, and
shipped abroad.
The question of speeding production had been faced and met. The various
problems had been discussed and the bonus system tentatively taken up.
Then the men had dispersed, each infected with the drive of his father's
contagious force. "Pretty fine old boy," Graham had considered. And he
wondered vaguely if, when his time came, he would be able to take hold.
For a few minutes Natalie's closetings lost their effect. He saw his
father, not as one from whom to hide extravagance and unpaid bills,
but as the head of a great concern that was now to be a part of the war
itself. He wandered into his father's office, and picked up the shell.
Clayton was already at his letters, but looked up.
"Think we rather had them, eh, Graham?"
"Think you did, sir. Carried them off their feet. Pretty, isn't it?" He
held up the shell-case. "If a fellow could only forget what the damned
things are for!"
"They are to help to end the war," said Clayton, crisply. "Don't forget
that, boy." And went back to his steady dictation.
Graham went out of the building into the mill yard. The noise always
irritated him. He had none of Clayton's joy and understanding of it.
To Clayton each sound had its corresponding activity. To Graham it was
merely din, an annoyance to his ears, as the mill yard outraged his
fastidiousness. But that morning he found it rather more bearable. He
stooped where, in front of the store, the storekeeper had planted a tiny
garden. Some small late-blossoming chrysanthemums were still there and
he picked one and put it in his buttonhole.
His own office was across the yard. He dodged in front of a yard
locomotive, picked his way about masses of lumber and the general litter
of all mill yards, and opened the door of his own building. Just inside
his office a girl was sitting on a straight chair, her hat a trifle
crooked, and her eyes red from crying. He paused in amazement.