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Title: Horsesense Hank does his bit
Author: Nelson S. Bond
Release date: August 10, 2024 [eBook #74226]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1942
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HORSESENSE HANK DOES HIS BIT ***
Horsesense Hank Does His Bit
By NELSON S. BOND
Pearl Harbor got Horsesense Hank mad.
Something ought to be done about it--and
he was the man who was going to do it!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories May 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Like the rain-drenched angler said as he reeled in a fish, "Life is
just one damp thing after another!" I thought I'd fixed everything all
hunky-dory around the campus of dear old Midland U. when I finally got
my friend "Horsesense Hank" Cleaver engaged to Helen MacDowell. Which
just goes to prove that you shouldn't count your chickens until they're
hitched. Because That Man stepped in and messed up everything.
You know the guy I mean. The chief germ in Germany. The little
ex-housepainter with a scrap of old paintbrush on his upper lip. First
he "protected" himself against the poor Austrians. Then the Czechs and
the Poles. Then came Norway, Denmark, Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg--it
sounds like a geography lesson, doesn't it?--then France, the Balkans,
Greece and Crete. And finally, as his armies, having come a cropper
against the outraged Russian bear, stalled on the icy steppes of
Moscow's doorway, he invoked the aid of his yellow-skinned and -spined
allies, the Japs.
While their envoys calmed Washington with soft words of peace, their
air-arm bombed Pearl Harbor with grim weapons of war. It was then that
Horsesense Hank came to me and said soberly, "Well, so long, Jim. I'll
see you later."
I asked, "Where are you going? Down to Mike's for a hamburger? Wait a
minute; I'll go with."
"I'm goin' further'n that, Jim," said Hank, "an' the chances are I'll
be gone a mite longer. I--" He wriggled a bulldog-tipped shoe into the
carpet embarrassedly--"I reckon I'm agonna sign up for the duration."
I gasped. "You mean the army?"
"Well, not eggsackly. I don't figger they'd want me in the fightin'
forces, me bein' skinny like I am. But folks say I'm right quick with
math'matics an' things like that, so if I c'n be of any help to my
country--"
Hank was not exaggerating a bit. Almost everyone on the Midland campus,
including sweet little me, had known more formal education than H.
Cleaver. Eighty-five per cent of the faculty members dangled alphabets
after their names till they looked like government projects, but Hank
could give them all a running start and beat them silly on any question
requiring the use of good, old-fashioned common sense.
A marveling commentator had awarded Hank the name of "Scientific
Pioneer" for his uncanny ability to reach answers to problems
intuitively, without knowing or understanding the so-called "natural
laws" involved. Hank's aptitude at things mechanical, his infinitely
accurate mathematical computations and homely approach to abstract
ponderables, had promoted him from a rural turnip patch to the Chair of
General Sciences at our (alleged) institute of higher learning.[1]
[Footnote 1: "_The Scientific Pioneer_," AMAZING STORIES, March,
1940.--Ed.]
"It ain't," scowled Hank, "as if I was a hard man to git along with.
Gosh knows I'm easy-goin' enough--"
* * * * *
There was no gainsaying that. Hank was as quiet and gentle as a
Carnation cow. The fact that he had, despite his humble background, won
the favor and affections of bilious old H. Logan MacDowell, president
of Midland, proved his power to Win Friends. And the fact that he,
handicapped by a rawboned homeliness that would have discouraged any
scarecrow, had won the heart and hand of Prexy's daughter Helen, a lass
ardently pursued by every male in four counties, proved beyond a doubt
his ability to influence people.
"--but they jest ain't no gittin' along," continued Hank, "with that
there Hitler guy. The more he gits the more he wants. An' now that
him an' his Japanee pals is forced _us_ into it, I'm agonna offer my
services to whoever c'n use me."
"And where would that be, Hank?"
"Why, I was thinkin' o' one o' them plants that make war stuff," he
said. "They got plenty o' problems, nowadays, tryin' to reorganize f'r
defense work, changin' work methods, expandin' their facilities, an'
so on. There's that Northern Bridge, Steel and Girder Comp'any, f'r
instance--"
"But, Hank," I reminded him, "how about Helen?"
"I reckon Helen an' me'll jest have to wait a spell, Jim. Atter all,
they's a job to be done. We got to pitch in an' do it, or they ain't
gonna be no Helen or no Hank Cleaver, or mebbe even no U.S.A. f'r us to
git married in."
So that was that. When Hank Cleaver gets those grim lines about
the corners of his mouth, there's nothing you can do to stop him.
I helped him pack his battered old suitcase, then we went to say
goodbye to Helen. She reacted quite as I had expected. She listened
in astonishment to Hank's awkward explanation. Then she expostulated
loudly. Then she sniffled a little. Finally she wept for a minute,
kissed Hank moistly and told him she was proud of him.
"Anyway," she said, "you'll come home every week-end to see me, won't
you?" So Hank promised he would, and off we went. Yeah--that's right.
We. I had decided to volunteer, too. That's me all over. Snoopy Jim
Blakeson; can't keep my nose out of anything.
* * * * *
The Northern Bridge, Steel and Girder Co. was not so far from our
town--only fifty miles--but it was like moving into a strange, new
world to pass through the portals of that concern. Clatter and bang and
hubbub ... men roaring orders ... staccato tattoo of rivets hammering
home ... the keen, metallic smell of molten metal ... the bite of
rasps and the _chuff-chuff_ of panting locomotives ... these were the
symphonic diapason of our new headquarters.
About us, whistles blew, throngs of sweating workmen bustled about
their fathomless tasks, racing to and fro in an endless stream. Beyond
sturdy buildings black with age there ranged yellow rows of newer,
flimsier structures.
The place had a strangely _jejeune_ look. The look of an adolescent who
has outgrown his knee-britches, but has not yet the bulk and substance
to fill his new long pants. Still this was a husky youngster. He would
grow. He would grow to fill his new trousers. We both felt that.
We found the office of the company owner. Its doors were guarded by a
bevy of underlings who protested hopelessly that, "Mr. MacDonald was
too busy to see anyone." We brushed them aside and found ourselves, at
last, before the irascible president of the NBS&G.
He stared at us in amazement. He was a huge, brawny Scotsman with
eyebrows like feather-dusters and a jutting jaw that might have been
poured from one of his ingots. After he got his breath:
"And who," he demanded thunderously, "micht _you_ be?"
"'Lo, Mr. MacDonald," said Hank amiably. "My name's Hank Cleaver."
"And who," roared the old man, "micht 'Hank Cleaver' be to coom
abargin' into my office wi'oot inveetation? Speak oop, mon! Time is
money!"
"'Pears to me," pointed out Hank reasonably, "as how if time's money,
like you say, you'd stop wastin' time askin' foolish questions. It
don't matter much _who_ I am. The p'int is: whut did I come for. Ain't
it?"
Old MacDonald's fiery face turned two shades redder.
"Why, ye impairtenant yoong scoundrel--" he roared; then he paused. He
said thoughtfully, "Ye're richt. So what _did_ ye coom for?"
"A job," said Hank.
"A jawb! Ye mean t' tell me ye fairced y'r way into _my_ office to osk
f'r a jawb? The employment office lies doon the hall, yoong mon, twa
doors t' y'r richt--"
Hank fidgeted uncomfortably.
"Well, that ain't eggsackly the kind o' job I had in mind, Mr.
MacDonald. Whut I mean is--"
* * * * *
I decided to stick in my two cents. Bashful as Hank is, it would have
taken him all day to explain. "Hank means, Mr. MacDonald, that he would
like to offer his services in an executive capacity."
"Exec--!" This time MacDonald couldn't even finish the word. He pawed
his graying thatch wildly. "Ye dinna say so? Ond would the title o'
preseedent sotisfy him, ye think? Or mayhop he'd ruther be Chairmon o'
the Board o' Deerectors? Who are _you_?"
"I'm Jim Blakeson. I was the publicity man for Midland University,"
I explained, "but now I'm at your disposal. Where Hank goes, I go.
I don't believe you quite realize who Mr. Cleaver is, sir. He is
'Horsesense Hank'."
"And I'm 'Horsesense Hector'!" snorted old MacDonald witheringly. "So
what?" It was obvious that he was no newspaper reader, or he would have
known Hank's reputation.
"Mr. Cleaver," I told him severely, "is a teacher of General Sciences
at our school. He is well versed in a score of subjects germane to your
business. Mathematics, civil and chemical engineering ballistics--"
"Motheematics," bellowed MacDonald, "be domned! The NBS&G needs no
figgerer! I've gawt one o' the cleverest ones in the coontry wairkin'
f'r me. My future son-in-law, Jawnny Day! _Jawnny!_" He strode to a
doorway, flung it open, bawled his command. In the doorway appeared a
nice looking kid with fine lips and eyes. "Jawnny, this mon claims to
be a--"
But young Day had stepped forward eagerly, extending a hand to Hank.
"Mr. Cleaver! This is an unexpected pleasure!"
MacDonald's jaw played tag with his weskit buttons.
"Ye--ye know him, Jawnny?"
"Know him! Why, every mathematician in this country knows and envies
the logic of Horsesense Hank. Are you going to work here with us, Mr.
Cleaver?"
"Well," squirmed Hank embarrassedly, "that's f'r Mr. MacDonald to say.
Seems sorta like he don't want me."
But MacDonald, the ozone spilled from his Genoa jib, now backed water
like a duck in a whirlpool.
"Bide a wee!" he puffed hastily. "Dinna be in sooch a roosh, yoong mon.
If Jawnny recommends ye, there's a place in this organeezation f'r ye.
Ond f'r y'r friend, too. Now, let's talk ways and means--"
* * * * *
Thus it was that Hank Cleaver and I became employees of the Northern
Bridge, Steel and Girder Company. The job to which Hank was finally
assigned was that of Estimator. I was given a desk in the Advertising
Department offices, though to tell the truth I was no great shakes
as a ballyhoo artist for structural steel girders and forged braces,
having previously boosted the merits of nothing more substantial than a
200-lb. line and a 175-lb. backfield.
But we got along all right. Until one day, after we had been working
there for a couple of weeks, the boss called Hank into his private
office. I tagged along. Old Mac had a visitor. A slim, prim man with a
ramrod up his spinal column and _pince-nez_ on a beak that would dull a
razor.
"Cleaver," said Hector MacDonald, "I want you should meet Mr. Grimper.
Mr. Grimper, shake honds wi' Hank Cleaver, my Chief Estimator." The Old
Man, I saw was happy as a lark about something; happy and excited, too.
"Mr. Grimper," said he, "is a Government mon, Hank. From the R.O.T.C.--"
"O.P.M.," corrected Grimper sourly. "At the moment, I also unofficially
represent the O.E.M., the O.P.A., and the S.P.A.B.--"
"No motter," chuckled MacDonald joyfully. "'Tis all the same alphabet.
Hank, laddy, we've been drofted! F'r the duration o' the war the auld
mon in the top hat is takin' our plont over f'r defense wairk. From
now on we're not buildin' bridges and girrders; we're rollin' armament
plate and makin' shells to bomb to the de'il-and-gane yon bloody
scoundrel wi' the foony moostache! What d'ye think o' _that_?"
Hank said soberly, "Why--why, that's wonderful!"
"The United States Government," said Grimper tautly, "will assume all
expenses necessary for the expansion of your facilities. When the war
is over the plant, with all its improvements, will be turned back to
you. Meanwhile, a reasonable profit will be allowed you on all defense
materials produced."
"Gosh," gulped Hank enthusiastically, "that's swell! We won't let
you down, Mr. Grimper. If you'll give me a sort of idea what kind
of additional facilities you need, I'll git right to work on it. We
mustn't waste no time--"
* * * * *
Grimper coughed peremptorily.
"Er--that's just the point I was about to bring up, Mr. Cleaver. We
must waste neither time nor money. This war effort is far too important
to be disturbed by--ahem--other factors. That is why I asked Mr.
MacDonald to call you. You see, our organization has its _own_ Estimate
staff, composed of men trained to do precisely the type of work that
will be required here. Consequently, under the new set-up, you will be
an unnecessary cog in an already perfect machine. I--er--I trust you
understand, Mr. Cleaver?"
Hank stared at him, stricken.
"You--you mean you won't _want_ me here any more?"
"To be more accurate," replied the government agent, "we won't _need_
you. That is, in your present capacity. However, I have no doubt that a
man like yourself, familiar with all angles of the steel industry, will
find a niche--"
"But--but I ain't!" moaned Hank. "I wasn't in this business till a
couple of weeks ago!"
"What?" Grimper stared at him, then at the owner of the company. "I
don't understand, Mr. MacDonald. Isn't this man your Chief Estimator?
He must have had _some_ experience."
"Hank," confessed the Old Man, "was a puffessor."
"A--a what?"
"Teacher," said Hank miserably. "I taught stuff and things at Midland
U. Algebra, a little, an' general science, an' a smatterin' o' this an'
that."
"You mean that with such a background--"
"I know whut y'r thinkin'," interposed old MacDonald hastily, "and
'tisna so. Mr. Cleaver airned his job the hard way. The fairst day he
set foot in here I ordered him oot--but he's made me swallow my wairds.
Now I consider his sairvices invaleeable."
"Still," frowned Grimper, "Mr. Cleaver's talents are not sufficiently
remarkable to justify his presence on such a project as that which we
are about to embark on. We have our own engineers and mathematicians in
Washington. Why, _I_ am an efficiency expert, myself, trained to handle
emergencies--"
At that moment the office door inched open. The Old Man glanced up
worriedly. "Aye, Miss Cole? What is it?"
"Three of the shop foremen, sir. They say they must see you
immediately."
"Ye'll excuse me, Mr. Grimper? Verra well. Let 'em in, Miss Cole."
Then, as three grim and grimy men shouldered angrily into the room:
"Well, what's the motter? Don't stond there glarin' at each ither! Time
is money; speak oop!"
Gorman, foreman of the Maintenance Department, spoke for the trio.
"Well, it's the new tools we ordered, Mr. MacDonald. The shipment just
arrived--"
"Then what're ye blatherin' aboot? Ye've been howlin' blue murrder f'r
weeks because they were delayed. Divide 'em oop and get to wairk!"
"That's just it," fumed Hendricks of Testing. "They couldn't send us
our complete order, Mr. Mac. They sent only seventeen sets. And we
can't divide 'em up. They don't come out even."
"Even?" repeated Grimper superciliously.
* * * * *
Mulvaney, the Construction foreman, complained, "I'm supposed to get
one half of all materials ordered, sir, but I can't take a half of
seventeen. Gorman's supposed to get one third, and Henny's supposed to
get one ninth. Our problem is how are we going to divide them?"
Grimper said, "Er--aren't you gentlemen making much ado about nothing?
The answer seems to be very simple. Just open the crates and distribute
the tools in their proper proportions."
And he beamed at Old Mac triumphantly. But his grin was short-lived.
Gorman's sniff was one of pure disdain.
"Didn't you hear Henny say them tools come in _sets_?" he snorted. "I'd
look pretty, wouldn't I, Mister, screwin' a loose nut with one third of
a screwdriver? And Henny'd go to town measurin' rivet-precision with
one ninth of a caliper!"
Old MacDonald guffawed loudly.
"I'm afeared he's gawt ye there, Grimper. Hank, ha' ye any idee whut to
do?"
Cleaver had been scratching his cranium; now he said thoughtfully,
"We-e-ell, mebbe I have, Mr. Mac. Joe, c'n you borry another set o'
them tools from Supplies?"
Gorman said swiftly, "I can, but I won't. I want my full share of the
order, Hank. I don't want no debit against my department in Supplies--"
"There won't be. But let's suppose, f'r the moment, you _have_ borryed
a set. Now how many sets would you have?"
"Why--why, eighteen, of course."
"Sure. Now, Mike, you git half o' them sets. Nine, right? An' Joe, you
git one third, or six; satisfied? Bill, your department gits one ninth
o' the order--or two complete sets. Okay? Well, boys, there you are.
Evabuddy happy?"
"Everybody but _me_!" stormed Joe Gorman. "I've got a set of tools
charged against me in Supplies! That idea's all right for these lugs,
maybe, but I got my rights! I--"
"Now, take it easy," soothed Hank. "Two an' six an' nine is oney
_seventeen_, Joe. They's still one set left over. So now you can return
that one to Supplies!"
"Well, I'll be damned!" said Mulvaney.
* * * * *
And on that note of sincere (if profane) admiration, the department
heads disappeared to divvy up the disputatious shipment. With an air of
"I told you so!" Old Mac turned to a rather acid-looking Grimper.
"Y' see, Mr. Grimper? Indeespenseeable, that's whut he is! Ye maun do
weel f'r to reconsider this motter--"
But there was a streak of mule six feet tall and two feet wide in the
Federal man. He sniffed down his long, thin nostrils and studied Hank
through his _pince-nez_ with detached interest.
"Hrrumph!" he hrrumphed. "Very interesting, but not at all new, you
know. Hardly mathematics at all, in fact. A numerical paradox based on
an old Arabian legend, if I am not mistaken--"
I did what Flatbushers would call a "slow berl." In other words, I was
boined up. But while I was still striving for words, young Johnny Day,
who had entered from his office, came charging to Hank's defense.
"Maybe it's not mathematics," he raged, "in the pure sense. But it's
something more valuable--common sense! Any man who can pop up with a
quick answer to a problem like that is a handy guy to have around.
_You_ are an efficiency expert, Mr. Grimper, but _you_ had no solution
to offer--"
Grimper's lean jaw tightened. His eyes grew as cold as a ditchdigger's
ears in Siberia. Whatever slow beginnings of humanity might have been
wakening in his bosom died now.
"I am sorry, gentleman," he said in a tone of finality which meant he
wasn't at all, "but I am not convinced. I presume, Mr. MacDonald, you
_do_ want this Government order?"
"Notcherally," grudged Old Mac.
"Then--" Primly--"you must accept my decisions on questions of policy.
Mr. Cleaver, you are hereby granted two weeks in which to clear up
your affairs around this plant, at the end of which time your services
will no longer be needed. I trust you will find suitable employment
elsewhere...."
And he smiled, a mean, oily little smile. The heel!
So that, lads and lassies, was that. Hank was o-u-t on called strikes,
but if you think he just quit trying to do his share because a
fortnight's deadline was hanging over his head, you don't know old
turnip-torturer Cleaver.
* * * * *
The Northern Bridge, Steel and Etcetera still needed estimating, so
Hank labored straight on through till the last day, lending his
individual--if unwanted--talents. Thus it was that on the Saturday
afternoon he drew his final paycheck he had still not cleared out his
desk drawers and lockers for the next incumbent.
He told me so at dinner. I asked, "Well, what's the program, Hankus?
After we feed we grab a choo-choo?"
But he just stared at me. "_We_, Jim? But you wasn't laid off."
"Birds of a feather," I told him, "flop together. I go where you go."
He shook his head.
"Oh, no, Jim. Thanks a lot, but--you got to stick. This ain't no time
f'r individjuls to fuss an' argue. We got a war to win, an' wherever a
man's needed he's got to stay."
"But how about you, Hank?"
"I'll find somethin' else to do. When we're through eatin' I got to
go back to the plant an' pick up whut belongs to me, then I'll mosey
along."
I sighed.
"Well, all right, chum. If that's the way it is--"
That, he assured me, was the way it was. So we went back to the plant
about 8:30 p.m. And that's where the final insult was added to injury.
For after we had passed the gate a slim, forbidding figure stepped from
the shadows to halt us with a challenge.
"Just a moment! Who goes there?"
I started, then I grinned impudently. It was friend Grimper, in person,
and not an effigy. I said, "Just a brace of Nazi spies, pal. Don't
shoot till you see the yellow down our backs."
The government man edged forward austerely.
"And what are you two doing back this time of night? Blakeson, you have
no right to be here after six o'clock, and your friend has no right
here at _any_ hour!"
I said, "Why, you two-for-a-nickel imitation of a G-man--"
But Hank, unruffled as ever, said calmly, "Easy does it, Jim. Why, Mr.
Grimper, I jest come back to gather up the stuff in my locker an' desk.
It won't take me long."
Grimper said sourly, "We-e-ell, all right. But I'll have to go along
with you. We can't afford to give strangers the run of the mill
nowadays. Constant vigilance is our only defense against saboteurs and
espionage agents, and there are valuable military stores within these
gates."
"Strangers!" I spat disgustedly. "You've got a hell of a nerve,
Grimper. Hank Cleaver volunteered his talents to this concern before
you ever knew it existed--"
"Services," said Grimper coldly, "which ended today. And I should not
be surprised, Mr. Blakeson, if yours were to be terminated soon. Well,
come along."
* * * * *
So we entered the plant. And of course it was black as a whale's belly
in there, but do you think Dopey Joe would let us turn on any lights?
Oh, no! He had ideas about _that_, too. He was fuller of ideas than
a Thanksgiving turkey is of chestnuts. He commanded, "You will use a
flashlight, please. One never knows what prying eyes may be upon us."
"There are a couple of eyes," I glared, "I'd like to pry--with doubled
pinkies. Hurry up, Hank. Get your things and let's scram out of here.
There's a bad odor around here, and it's not oil fumes."
Hank emptied his desk drawers, and we picked our way down darkened
corridors, through the machine-shop and turning room, toward the
lockers. We had but one more room to cross: the drafting-room, wherein
were stored all the blueprints and testing-models. We were halfway
across this, our tiny flashlight beam a dim beacon before our stumbling
feet, when--
Out of the gloom, suddenly, terrifyingly, a voice!
"_Halten Sie sich!_ Not a move! Otto--get them!"
* * * * *
Don't ever ask me about the next few minutes. I was there in body only.
My mind was as blank as a Fourth of July cartridge. I remember seeing
figures--two, three, or twenty--darting toward us; I remember yelling,
ducking, and punching with one and the same motion; I remember hearing
guttural voices snarling commands that ended mostly in "geworden sein"
so it must have been German. I remember feeling, with satisfaction,
a spurt of sticky warmth deluge my knuckles as I hit the jackpot on
something spongy that howled.
I remember, too, hearing Hank gasp, "Judas priest--German spies!" just
before his lanky length toppled under the impact of an accurately
wielded blackjack. And I remember my last conscious thought: that when
I got a chance I must offer an apology to sour-puss Grimper. Because
that thin, hawk-nosed stencil of superiority-plus was--what-ever else
his faults--a bang-up fighting man in a pinch! With a fury incredible
in one his size and build, he was laying about him like a demon. One
Heinie was peacefully slumbering at his ankles already, a second was
bawling for assistance.
Then three, or four, or a thousand of them rushed me at the same time.
I remember something playing "Heavy, heavy--what hangs over your head?"
above my cranium--then that's all I do remember. A bomb exploded in my
cerebrum and I went to beddy-bye.
I had a nice little dream, then. I dreamed I was in Spain during the
Inquisition, and a black-robed priest had me fastened to a windlass.
As he murmured pious paternosters in my ears, he was gently screwing
the instrument tighter, and I was gasping with pain as my arms slowly,
grindingly, withdrew from their sockets.
I wriggled, emitting a muffled howl, and awakened to find the dream
based on cold, brutal fact! My mouth was full of cotton waste--slightly
the worse for wear--explaining my muffled tones. My arms were tied
together with a short scrap of hemp; this length had been passed
through the draw-chain of a skylight, and thus, securely locked, I hung
dangling like a pendulum with my toes barely scraping the floor.
Nor was I the only trussed duck in this tableau. My pal Hank was
swinging from another skylight chain a few yards away, while Grimper
made it three-on-a-ratch. The government agent was the luckiest of us
all. He was out cold, and so he didn't have to listen--as did Cleaver
and I--to the gleeful chucklings of the saboteurs.
And chuckling they were, like the hooded villains in a Victorian
meller-drammer. Apparently one or two thousand of them had gone home,
because there were now only a half dozen, but these six were the
nastiest looking Nazis I ever hope not to see again. Beetle-browed
thugs, fine examples of the pure Aryanism Herr Shickelgruber is always
bragging on.
* * * * *
They had been rifling the plant as we happened in, I guess, because the
floors were strewn with a litter of papers and blueprints, diagrams,
schematics, formulae. As my bleary eyes opened, one of the foragers was
complaining to the chief rascal:
"--nothing here, Schlegel. This has a search of no value been."
"And you," I piped up rather feebly, "a nest of rats are! What's the
big idea? Untie us, or--"
The ringleader turned, grinning unpleasantly. "Or," he sneered, "what
_schweinhund_? So, Karl, nothing we can use there is here? Very well;
it matters not. When we leave, we shall the plant make useless to the
_verdammt Amerikanisch_."
He called to others of his cohorts, scattered around the room. "You are
ready? When I give the word--ignite!"
Polecat No. 2 jerked a dirty thumb in our direction.
"And how about them, Schlegel?"
Schlegel's grin would have congealed hot toddy.
"We leave them here."
"Of course, but--" The other man fingered a blunt-nosed automatic
hopefully--"would it not be safer to--?"
"_Nein!_" chuckled Schlegel boastfully. "We shall not make bulletholes
in their carcasses. That the cleverest part of my plan is. That is why
we tied them thus. The same fire that destroys them will devour the
ropes around their wrists, dropping their bodies to the floor, leaving
no evidence. The investigators will believe _they_ started the fire,
and so will not search further for _us_."
He laughed coarsely and poked me in the ribs. "That amusing is, _nichts
wahr, mein Freund_?"
"Yeah," I answered grimly. "It's a howl. Just like kidnapping Polish
girls and executing innocent hostages. You filthy--" I wrestled
savagely with my bonds, but my efforts just sent lancets of pain
burning through my already groaning armpits. I glanced at Hank, but
he was still hanging quietly from his chain, his eyes closed, his
head loud forward upon his chest. He, like Grimper, was blissfully
unconscious.
Now came an end to the German's taunts. He swung to his aides, rapped
swift commands. Matches scratched, flared, were thrust instantly into
heaps of piled rubble. Tongues of flame rose, wavering; strengthened;
licked hungrily higher as the inflammable material ignited.
* * * * *
For the first time, a sense of real fear filled me. Up till this moment
the whole affair had seemed so fantastic, so maddeningly unreal, that
it had been a sort of wild dream. Now I realized belatedly, suddenly,
completely, that this was really happening to _me_, here in the heart
of the U.S.A. This was War! We had met the enemy in battle--and had
lost!
[Illustration: Horsesense Hank was suspended over the blazing debris.]
I realized, too, that something more vital than just our three lives
was in danger. This building--up the wooden walls of which angry
rivulets of fire were now creeping--was an important cog in Uncle Sam's
total war effort. Destroyed, it meant loss of precious materiel to the
Allies, hundreds of eager hands restrained from putting into employment
the tools which forged the weapons of Democracy, thousands of tanks and
guns and aircraft withheld from fighters who needed them.
But we were helpless! The more so, now, because our captors were
scurrying from the room like rats from a sinking ship. As the gloom
lighted to ochre, they hurried to a door, slipped through it--and the
_clank!_ of metal upon metal meant they had dropped the lockbar into
place behind them.
Trapped! Trapped to die like moths in a flame. But a moth had wings; we
had none. Our hands were pinioned to an inaccessible pillory. I writhed
again, a moan wrenching from my lips as my shoulder-muscles strained
and tore. And then:
And then a calm, familiar voice speaking to me! The voice of Horsesense
Hank.
"I wouldn't do that if I was you, Jim. 'Twon't help none, an' it may
jest make matters wuss."
I gasped, "Hank! Thank the Lord you're alive. I was afraid maybe you--"
"I'm awright," said Cleaver gently. "Jest stunned a little. I come
to a few minutes ago, but I figgered as how I mought as well keep my
eyes an' mouth shut. No sense lettin' the enemy know you got y'r wits
about you, I calc'late." His eyes studied the ever-fanning flame with
incredibly detached interest. "Hmm! Thing's spreadin' fast, hey? Do you
reckon the fire department'll be able to ketch it afore it ruins the
whole plant?"
"I'd give a million bucks," I told him honestly, "to be here to find
out."
"'Pears to me," mused Hank, "like they will. That's green wood, you
know. Don't burn as quick as seasoned timber would. Yep, I 'low as how
them spies won't do as much damage as they planned on."
"That," I moaned, "will be a great consolation to us when they bury our
ashes!"
"Our which?" Hank stared at me curiously. "Oh, you mean--Why, hell,
Jim, we ain't dead yet!"
At this point another voice intruded itself into the conversation. The
dry, resigned voice of Mr. Grimper.
"No, not yet, gentlemen. But I am afraid it is time to prepare for that
fate. For we are hopelessly secured, the doors are locked and bolted
upon us, and in a few minutes the room will be a furnace of flame!"
* * * * *
I shuddered. Of course his prophecy was not news to me. But it made our
peril more real to hear it thus spoken.
His words, however, completely failed to disturb the placidity of
Horsesense Hank. Hank just said, "Why, 'lo, Mr. Grimper! I was hopin'
you'd snap out of it purty soon. Die? Why, we ain't agonna die. Not
sence them Nazies was too dumb to tie us up."
My heart gave a sudden leap; I had to swallow before I could choke,
"Tie us--What do you mean, Hank? We _are_ tied--and to something far
above our heads. We can't even reach the bar we're chained to--"
"We don't have to, Jim. They give us a loophole almost within reach.
You notice that there skylight chain is a right thin one. I can't get
these rope loops off'n my wrists but I think I c'n squeeze the skylight
chain through a loop."
He straightened his legs, and I realized suddenly he had purposely kept
them _slightly_ bent at the knees during the time our enemies had been
in the room. Now his toes gave him a reasonable foothold on the floor.
Using this, he leaped up and gripped the steel chain _above_ his
ropes ... drew himself up hand-over-hand until he was swinging
comfortably in the loop.
What he did then was weird and inexplicable to me--until, of course, a
long time afterward. He pushed the steel chain through one of the rope
loops about his wrist, pulled a wide, metal bight through this opening,
stepped into the loop--and dropped lightly to the floor, _free_!
The only encumbrance on him was a length of hemp between his arms. Now
that he was at liberty to approach us it was a matter of minutes for
him to unloose our bonds and have us untie his!
* * * * *
Grimper's jaw had dropped to his bottom vest button. Slow comprehension
dawned on his features. He gasped, "A--a problem in applied
topography![2] Astounding! I can hardly believe my eyes--but it's
completely logical. Mr. Cleaver--I owe you an apology. Please allow me
to--"
[Footnote 2: Hank's problem here was similar to those interesting ones
presented by Messrs. Krasna and Newman in their fascinating volume,
_Mathematics and the Imagination_: The captives were not truly bound so
long as freedom of leg movement permitted them to convert their bonds
into a simply-connected manifold.
[Illustration]
By way of illustration (and for your own amusement) tie a 36" piece of
string to each of your wrists. Tie a second piece of string to each of
the wrists of a friend in such a fashion that the second piece loops
the first. By experiment, you will discover it is quite possible to
disengage yourself from your companion without breaking or cutting the
string.
Another interesting example of topological freedom is that achieved
in removing the vest without first removing the coat. Try it. The
coat may be unbuttoned, but your arms must not slip out of the coat
sleeves.--Ed.]
"Topogra-which?" asked Hank interestedly. "I didn't know it had no
name, Mr. Grimper. Just 'peared to me like as if a circle's got an
inside an' an outside, an' we was in the inside, so we wasn't tied up
at all, rightly speakin'. Well, let's git out o' here!"
Well he might make the suggestion. For all this had taken time. As we
labored to free each other we had heard an excited hubbub gathering
outside, the wail of fire sirens had sounded, the yammer of voices
raised in command, and a stream of water was already beginning to
play upon one wall. But in the meantime, the fire had gained headway.
The walls of this room were ruddy sheets of flame. The narrow circle
of safety in which we stood was rapidly dwindling. And my skin was
beginning to crack and blister with oven-fierce heat.
I croaked despairingly, "But how, Hank? We're free, yes! But the doors
are still locked, and the windows--"
"Why, the skylight, Jim!" drawled Hank. "That's our exit--Hey! Grab
him!"
I whirled just in time to catch the falling frame of government agent
Grimper. The thin man had come to an end of his endurance. His heart
was stout and courageous out of all proportion to his physical makeup.
With a stifled cry he had fainted dead away!
* * * * *
Well, there you are! One moment we were on our road to a Happy Ending,
and _bing!_--all of a sudden the Three Gray Ladies slap us in the puss
with a damp mackerel! I stared at Hank fearfully, and moistened parched
lips.
"Wh-what will we do with him, Hank? W-we can't just leave him here to
die!"
Hank stroked a lean and thoughtful jaw.
"Sort o' complicates matters, don't it?" he queried. "Let's see--we
couldn't h'ist him up, could we?"
I said bitterly, "_I_ can't, Hank. I hate to admit it--but I'd be a
damned liar if I pretended otherwise. I'm so weak, and my armpits so
badly strained, that it will be all I can do to lift myself. Can--can
you?"
Hank shook his head miserably.
"Nup. I didn't _jump_ off'n that chain just now, Jim, I _fell_ off.
Hangin' up there like jerked meat wrenched somethin' in my back. I
calc'late I c'n climb that chain myself, but I couldn't h'ist nobody
else's weight.
"Wait a minute! _Weight!_" He repeated the word more loudly. A
gleam brightened in his eye. "Sure! Dead weight! That's the answer!
Here--gimme a hand, Jim. We got to lash him to one strand o' this
pulley-chain. Use them ropes. Got it? Okay--tie him tight, now."
"He--he's tied!" I puffed. The smoke was beginning to get me now.
Tears were coursing down my cheeks. Time was getting perilously short.
"W-what do we do next?"
"Git on the other end o' that chain," ordered Hank, "an' _climb_!"
"W-what? And leave him dangling here below? But it only saves our
lives, Hank! See, the flames are right on us. We won't have time to
reach the skylight and haul him up--"
"_Do whut I tell you!_" roared Hank, "_An' hurry!_"
There was more vehemence in his voice than I'd heard at any previous
time. It shocked, startled me into activity. I leaped for the side of
the draw-chain opposite to that upon which Grimper was hanging limp;
began climbing like a monkey, hand-over-hand. The dangling chain drew
taut above me, and I saw that Hank, too, was climbing. I looked for
Grimper--
And Grimper was _above_ me! As Hank and I climbed one side of the
chain, the agent's inert body was being hauled up the other. He
reached the cool sanctuary of the skylight before we did, lifted
to safety by our combined weights, before I remembered the old
monkey-weight-and-pulley puzzle that one time caused a near-riot in a
staid academy of savants!
* * * * *
So all's well that ends well. It was an easy matter to unlash Grimper
when we had reached the roof, an easier job yet to hurry him down a
fire escape to the ground. And as my ever-logical friend had guessed,
the fire-laddies put out the blaze before it spread to adjacent
buildings; thus what might have proved a serious loss to America's
_offense_ was held to a minimum. One building which could be easily
replaced.
We didn't leave town that night. We were exhausted, for one thing; for
another, Hank was in no condition to board a train. His suitcase had
been destroyed in the fire, and as he ruefully confessed to me when I
asked his reason for _backing_ away from the wildly cheering mob that
escorted us to our hotel, the fire had got in one last, farewell lick
just as we escaped. Said caress had singed a neat, round hole in Hank's
southern exposure.
And the next day there came a hurry-call from Johnny Day. They had
caught the saboteurs, or thought they had, and would we please come and
identify them?
So we did, and they were, and the Jerries were taken into custody by a
detail of granite-eyed soldiers who gripped their Garands as if they
hoped Hitler's hirelings _would_ break for freedom. Which of course
they didn't. No longer holding the whip-hand, they were the meekest,
humblest looking skunks you ever saw.
It was then that Grimper, so trim and fresh that you would never know
he'd almost been baked _Grimper au jus_, moved forward to shake Hank's
hand.
"Last night, Mr. Cleaver," he said, "I apologized to you. This morning
I want to repeat that apology and wish you all possible success when
you leave here."
Hank just blushed and wriggled a bulldog-tipped shoe into the carpet.
"Aw, that's all right, Mr. Grimper--"
But if he could take it like that, I couldn't. In a fury I stepped
forward and shoved my nose into Grimper's pan.
"You may be an agent for Uncle Sam," I snarled, "and a joy to your
loving mama--but you're a pain in the pants to me, Grimper! You've got
one hell of a nerve. This man saved your life and MacDonald's plant
after you fired him. And now you've got the almighty guts to wish him
_bon voyage_! Well, I for one--"
But, surprisingly, it was Old Mac who stopped me.
"Now, take it easy, Blakeson," he said. "'Tisna the time to gripe and
growse. Mr. Grimper kens his dooties as an agent o' Oncle Som. There's
a cairtain amount o' accuracy in whut he says. There _is_ no fitting
place here for Hank's peecoolyar talents--"
"If not here," I howled, "then where on earth--?"
"Now, Jim!" begged Hank mildly.
But the answer came from Mr. Grimper. A smile split the lips of the
scrawny little fighting-cock.
"Why, in Washington, of course," he said. "Like all humans, I make
mistakes, Mr. Blakeson. But when I discovered I erred, I try to rectify
my hastiness. Therefore I have today wired Washington that Mr. Cleaver
is on his way. He will act as personal and confidential adviser to--the
President. Mr. Cleaver, do you think you'll like that?"
But he got no answer from Horsesense Hank. For that gentleman had
fainted dead away on the floor. And me? Well, I slumbered blissfully
beside him. Where Hank goes ... I go....
THE END
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