ULY was hot. Everybody said so. The sun burned the grass in the yards till it was brown, and no rain came to make it green again. All the men were tired; some of them were cross.
Mr. Prescott put in more electric fans. Then he played the hose to keep the air cool, but the water supply was so low that he was ordered to stop using the hose.
One day he had an awning put up near the gate, and sent lame Tom Murphy, the timekeeper, out there to sit.
Tom, preferring the cool of the great door where he had always sat, confided his trouble to Billy.
“It’s my opinion,” he said, “privately spoken to you alone, that the super sent me out here for something besides air. It’s been my opinion, for some time, that there’s trouble somewhere.”
“I suppose,” said Billy, assuming a business tone, “that you’re a friend back again, aren’t you, Mr. Murphy?”
Unconsciously sitting straighter in his chair, he answered, “I’m not altogether clear as to your meaning, William.”
“You told me yourself, Mr. Murphy,” said Billy, still speaking very firmly, “that Mr. Prescott is a friend to every man in the mill. Aren’t you a friend back again?”
“I am,” answered the timekeeper emphatically. “You may depend on me in all weathers, even to sitting out here in the sun.”
“Then,” said Billy, “you and I, Mr. Murphy, are both friends, on our honor as gentlemen—that’s what my father used to say.”
“I am,” answered Thomas Murphy.
Just then they heard the honk, honk of Mr. Prescott’s machine, and Billy stood carefully aside for him to pass.
Mr. Prescott, who was alone, said:
“Things all right, Thomas? Jump in, William.”
Billy, surprised beyond words, obeyed.
Mr. Prescott, starting the car quickly, drove rapidly down the street.
When they reached the square, Billy said:
“Some letters, sir, to post. That’s where I was going.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Prescott, stopping the car.
“Ever in a machine before?” he asked, as Billy got in again beside him.
“No, sir.”
“Think I’ll take you with me then; I’m chasing an order. We’re nearly out of coke.”
They rode so fast that the air began to seem cooler. Billy, quite willing to be silent with Mr. Prescott beside him, settled back in the seat in blissful content.
“Know anything about coke, William?” asked Mr. Prescott, breaking the silence, suddenly.
“No, sir, except that it’s gray, and that they burn it in the cupola.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Mr. Prescott; “you’re interested in iron. Well, then, it’s time that you knew something about coke.
“Long ago they used charcoal, that is, partly burned wood, in the iron furnaces. That used up the forests so fast that, over in England, the government had to limit the number of iron furnaces.
“Then they tried to use coal. That didn’t work very well. Finally somebody found that, if the coal was partly burned, that is, made into coke, it would require less blast, and the iron would melt more quickly. It was a great day for iron when coke came in.”
The car sped on, and again Mr. Prescott lapsed into silence.
The country didn’t look at all like the country that Billy dreamed about. His was green. This was brown. But there were no hot, red bricks to look at; that was something to be thankful for, anyway.
“See anything new?” asked Mr. Prescott.
“What are they?” asked Billy, pointing to long rows of something that looked like large beehives.
“Coke ovens; they call them beehive ovens. That overhead railway is where they charge the ovens through the top. After the coal has burned about two days, it is quenched with water. Then they draw it out at the bottom as coke, and put in a new charge while the ovens are still hot.”
After he got home that night—it was closing time when they reached the square where Mr. Prescott left him—Billy couldn’t remember that Mr. Prescott had said a word to him all the way back. But Billy was happy, and rested, too.
While they were walking to the mill the next morning Uncle John said:
“Billy, my lad, I want to give you some confidential advice. You went out riding with the superintendent yesterday, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Billy.
“But you’re the office boy, just the same, this morning?”
“Sure, Uncle John,” answered Billy.
“I thought you’d be clear on that,” said Uncle John, beaming with pride. “I thought you’d be clear on that!”
Billy began the day as an office boy, dusting and sharpening pencils and sorting the mail.
Miss King came in, looking cool and pretty in her white office dress, with a bunch of sweet peas in her hand.
“Beautiful, aren’t they, William?” she said holding them up in the light. “See how the lavender ones have pink in them, and the pink have white, and the white are just tinted with pink, so they all blend together. I always pick some leaves, too; they’re such a soft, cool green.”
“Do you suppose,” asked Billy, “that they’d grow in a yard—just a common yard?”
“These grew in our back yard,” answered Miss King. “I’ll give you some seed next year.”
At that moment Mr. Prescott came in with a telegram in his hand.
“Have to catch the nine-forty express,” he said. “Can’t get back for three days, anyway. Open those letters, William.”
Out came Billy’s knife, and he opened letters while Mr. Prescott dictated to Miss King.
“Don’t,” said Mr. Prescott, seizing his hat, “let anybody know that I have gone if you can help it. Don’t tell them how long I shall be gone. You and William must look after everything.”
Then off he went, leaving Miss King and Billy looking at each other in dismay.
“Well,” said Miss King, after a moment, “we don’t know where he has gone. So we can’t tell anybody that. And we don’t know when he is coming back.
“It isn’t very likely,” she added, with a reassuring smile, “that anything will happen while he is gone.”
Billy, who had never forgotten about keeping his ears open, thought Miss King said “very” as if she weren’t quite sure about something. So he said:
“I’ll stay in here with you as much as I can.”
“Thank you,” said Miss King, smiling.
“There’s nothing to do, anyway,” she went on, half to herself, “except to do things as they come along. So we’ll do that, William.
“Please get me some water for the flowers.”
Then she opened the typewriter and began to write very fast.
The day went on very much like other days. The mill seemed almost to be running itself.
When they were leaving the office that night Miss King said cheerfully:
“We’ve had a very pleasant day, haven’t we, William?”
“Seems to me I haven’t worked so hard as usual,” answered Billy.
The next day when Billy came back from the bank, soon after the noon whistle had blown, lame Tom’s chair under the canopy by the gate was empty.
Billy, hurrying on to the main building, found that Tom’s chair by the great door was empty, too.
As he stepped inside, Tom appeared from behind the door.
When he saw Billy an expression of relief came into his face.
“I’m glad to see you, William,” he said. “Stand in the door a minute and pretend I’m not talking to you.”
Billy, wondering what could have happened, turned his back on Tom, and waited.
“William,” said Tom, in an almost sepulchral tone, “the great key is gone.”
Billy nearly jumped out the door. But, remembering that he was on duty to look after things, he said:
“You watch while I try to find it.”
Even Billy’s young eyes could not find the key. He searched till he was sure, then he said:
“I’ll look again, Mr. Murphy, after you go out to the gate.”
The key was one of Mr. Prescott’s special treasures, for it was the very one that his grandfather had when he first built the mill. Several times the door had been almost made over, but the key had never been changed.
It was an iron key—three times as long as Billy’s longest finger, with a bow in which three of his fingers and almost a fourth could lie side by side, and its bit was more than half as long as his thumb. It was so large that Mr. Prescott sometimes called lame Tom “the keeper of the great key.”
Gone it was. Billy hunted till he was sure of that. He wanted to tell Miss King about it, but he could not stop to tell her then, for he had to distribute the orders for the afternoon.
Here and there he went. Last of all he had to go into the foundry. He was half-way down the room before he realized that he was on the side where he must pass the man with the fierce eyes and the coal black hair. Determined this time to be brave, he went steadily on.
The man was standing still, bending over his drag, his shock of unkempt hair hanging down over his eyes. He was so intent on his work that Billy, so nearly past that he felt quite safe, looked down curiously to see what pattern the man was using.
There, all by itself, in the bottom of the box, lay the great iron key.
