"Tell you what you do, Max; you call them up and tell them we want a man
to come out here and stay for a while. I may want to move the lights
around a little. And, anyhow, they may as well clean up their job and
have it done with."

He was starting back after the returning laborers when Max said:--

"Mr. Bannon."

"Hello?"

"I heard you speaking about a stenographer the other day."

"Yes--what about it? Haven't you got one yet?"

"No, but I know of one that could do the work first-rate."

"I want a good one--he's got to keep time besides doing the office
work."

"Yes, I thought of that. I don't suppose she----"

"She? We can't have any shes on this job."

"Well, it's like this, Mr. Bannon; she's an A1 stenographer and
bookkeeper; and as for keeping the time, why, I'm out on the job all day
anyhow, and I reckon I could take care of it without cutting into my
work."

Bannon looked quizzically down at him.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he said slowly. "Just look
around at this gang of men--you know the likes of them as well as I
do--and then talk to me about bringing a girl on the job." He his head.
"I reckon it's some one you're interested in."

"Yes," said Max, "it's my sister."

Max evidently did not intend to be turned off. As he stood awaiting a
reply--his broad, flat features, his long arms and bow legs with their
huge hands and feet, his fringe of brick-red hair cropping out behind
his cap, each contributing to the general appearance of utter
homeliness--a faint smile came over Bannon's face. The half-formed
thought was in his mind, "If she looks anything like that, I guess she's
safe." He was silent for a moment, then he said abruptly:--

"When can she start?"

"Right away."

"All right. We'll try it for a day or so and see how it goes. Tell that
boy in the office that he can charge his time up to Saturday night, but
he needn't stay around any longer."

Max hurried away. Group after group of laborers, peavies or cant-hooks
on shoulders, were moving slowly past him toward the wharf. It was
already nearly dark, and the arc lights on the elevator structure, and
on the spouting house, beyond the tracks, were flaring. He started
toward the wharf, walking behind a score of the laborers.

From the east, over the flats and marshes through which the narrow,
sluggish river wanders to Lake Michigan, came the hoarse whistle of a
steamer. Bannon turned and looked. His view was blocked by