Datasets:
elapt1c
/
ElapticAI-512

Dataset card Data Studio Files
xet
 Community
1
Search is not available for this dataset
text
stringlengths
0
149M
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."