Horsesense Hank does his bit

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.