, for all through the big rooms was
scaffolds and ladders and a dozen or more original members of the
Overalls Club splashin' mortar and paint around. I was glancin' at these
horny-handed sons of toil sort of casual when all of a sudden I spots
one guy in a well-daubed suit of near-white ducks who looks strangely
familiar. Walkin' up to the step-ladder for a closer view I has to stop
and let out a chuckle. It's Hartley.

"Well, well!" says I. "So you did have to crawl back, eh?"

"Eh?" says he, almost droppin' a pail of white paint. "Why, hello,
Torchy!"

"I see you're workin' for a real boss now," says I.

"Who do you mean?" says he.

"The old man," says I, grinnin'.

"Not much!" says Hartley. "He's only the owner, and precious little
bossing he can do on this job. I'm working for McNibbs, the contractor."

"You--you mean you're a reg'lar painter?" says I, gawpin'.

"Got to be, or I couldn't handle a brush here," says Hartley. "This is a
union job."

"But--but how long has this been goin' on, Hartley?" I asks.

"I've held my card for nearly three months now," says he. "No, I
haven't been painting here all that time. In fact, I came here only this
morning. The president of our local shifted me down here for--for
reasons. I'm a real painter, though."

"You look it, I must say," says I. "Like it better than being in the
bond room?"

"Oh, I'm not crazy about it," says he. "Rather smelly work. But it pays
well. Dollar an hour, you know, and time and a half for overtime. I
manage to knock out sixty or so a week. Then I get something for being
secretary of the Union."

"Huh!" says I. "Secretary, are you? How'd you work up to that so quick?"

"Oh, they found I could write fairly good English and was quick at
figures," says he. "Besides, I'm always foreman of the gang. Do all the
color mixing, you know. That's where my art school experience comes in
handy."

"That ought to tickle the old man," says I. "Seen him yet?"

"No," says Hartley, "but I want to. Is he here?"

"Sure," says I. "He's just outside. He'll be in soon."

"Fine!" says Hartley. "Say, Torchy, stick around if you want to be
entertained. I have a message for him."

"I'll be on hand," says I. "Here he comes now."

As old Z. K. stalks in, still red in the ears from his debate outside,
Hartley climbs down off the step ladder. For a minute or so the old man
don't seem to see him any more'n he does any of the other workmen that
he's had to dodg