Catherine brought Dr. Aris Thorne to the massive, ever-changing construction site of Argyle & Co. Foods.
Dr. Thorne, a genius who had spent half his life confined to college laboratories and classrooms, for the first time, so intuitively felt the grandeur and power of the word "industry."
He watched hundreds of workers, under the command of Supervisor Jones, methodically installing complex steam pipes for a huge new factory building.
He listened to the rhythmic clang of Smith the Blacksmith's team forging new machines in the distance.
His eyes were filled with awe.
"Miss O'Brien."
Dr. Thorne's tone no longer held the sharpness and disdain it had when they first met.
"Your boss, Mr. Argyle, is he… is he really building a factory? I feel as if he's building a new city."
Catherine smiled, quoting Allan.
"Dr. Thorne, our boss often says,"
"Speed and scale will be the prerequisites for winning all wars."
She led Dr. Thorne to the top floor of the three-story office building.
There were no superfluous pleasantries in Allan's office.
"Dr. Thorne, welcome."
Allan rose from his chair, and after they shook hands and sat down, they immediately got to the point.
"Catherine should have conveyed my basic intentions to you. I wonder what your thoughts are."
"Mr. Argyle."
Dr. Thorne adjusted his glasses, trying his best not to appear like a country bumpkin entering a big shot's office for the first time.
"Your proposal is very… tempting. However, I am also full of doubts."
"Please speak."
"First, regarding research freedom."
"You are a businessman. The nature of a businessman is to pursue profit. How can I believe that after I enter your laboratory, you won't send people to urge me every day, asking about the progress of the canned fruit research, thereby interfering with my more important research?"
"The second question is about money."
Dr. Thorne's tone began to sharpen.
"You propose to build an advanced laboratory for me. What is the definition of advanced? Is it defined by you, or by me, the person who truly needs to use it?"
Allan listened quietly.
He knew that although this man in front of him was socially inept, he was by no means a fool.
On the contrary, he was very smart.
He was using his own way to fight for the two things he valued most—dignity and resources.
"Dr. Thorne, I like your directness." Allan smiled, "Then, I will also answer your two questions in the most direct way."
"First, regarding research freedom." He looked at Thorne, "I assure you, I, and no one else in my company, will interfere with your specific academic research process. I will not ask you why the liquid in the flask is green. Nor will I ask you what that complex molecular formula represents."
Allan's tone became businesslike and clear.
"However, our cooperation is a contract. I invest in you, and you need to produce for me. We will jointly formulate a clear research plan.
The plan will include commercial topics that you need to solve for the company. For example, this quarter it's canned fruit.
Next quarter, it might be condensed milk.
As long as you can complete these commercial tasks on time.
Then, for the remaining time, even if you use the laboratory to study the origin of the universe, I will never interfere."
"As for money."
Allan pushed a blank check and a pen in front of Dr. Thorne.
"Regarding the scale and equipment of the laboratory, it is now up to you, the future manager, to define it personally."
"You can write on the back of this paper everything your dream laboratory needs. From the area of the rooms to the design of the ventilation ducts. From microscopes imported from the German Confederation to the most common test tubes. Anything you deem essential for research. You can write it down."
"After you finish writing, then sign your name on the front. This check will become part of our bilateral contract. I will guarantee to build for you a laboratory exactly as you've described within the next three months."
Dr. Thorne looked at the blank check in front of him, and his hands began to tremble slightly.
All his life, he had bowed and scraped to those foolish and arrogant school board members for a pitiful amount of research funding.
He had never imagined that one day someone would respect his expertise in such a "dream come true" way.
"Finally, regarding your compensation, Dr. Thorne."
"I will offer you an employment contract as Chief Chemist with an annual salary of two thousand dollars. This figure is double your salary at Columbia College."
"At the same time, I will sign a separate 'patent royalty' agreement with you."
This was the core part of Allan's proposal.
"In the future, for all commercial products successfully developed by you for the company and ultimately put into production, you will personally receive one percent of the net profit of that product as your technical royalty."
"In other words, Dr. Thorne,"
"The more money you make for me, the wealthier you yourself will become. Your intellect will have a market price that can be precisely calculated."
Dr. Thorne was completely convinced by these terms.
At this moment, he felt that Allan was simply an angel sent to him by God.
No one would offer a more benevolent contract than this.
This contract satisfied all his pursuits for reputation as a scholar (academic publication rights).
It also satisfied all his aspirations for wealth as a respectable person (high annual salary and royalties).
More importantly, it satisfied all his desires for a dream as a genius (a top-tier laboratory free from interference).
And all he had to give in return were his commercial discoveries, which had long been deemed "worthless" by the college.
"Mr. Argyle…"
He stood up and bowed slightly to Allan.
"You… you are a benevolent entrepreneur, and even more, a patron who understands how to respect science."
"I accept all your terms."
"Then, I wish us a pleasant cooperation, Dr. Thorne."
Time passed slowly.
A month later, the laboratory equipment arrived, and the laboratory was built along with the new factory. Dr. Thorne left the university, eager to begin his work.
Production Supervisor Jones walked into Allan's office.
"Boss."
His face showed undisguised joy.
"The steam boiler for the last production line has just completed its pressure test. Smith the Blacksmith says that all the equipment in our entire new factory has been installed and debugged."
"As you instructed, the two hundred newly recruited workers have all completed their pre-job training and are ready to start work at any time."
"When will we hold the inauguration ceremony?"
Allan stood up and walked to the window.
He looked down at the new factory below, quietly dormant like a steel behemoth.
"Tell Smith and everyone,"
"Our inauguration ceremony begins tomorrow."
----
With Felix's capital injection and Smith the Blacksmith's team working day and night, a new, massive food factory, large enough to make all of New York take notice, miraculously rose from the ground.
In the factory's quietest, independent annex, a modern chemical laboratory, equipped with the latest ventilation system and a complete set of glassware imported from Germany, officially opened.
Dr. Aris Thorne had resigned from his teaching position at Columbia College and, like a devotee who had found paradise, immersed himself in his research all day.
Everything was ready.
Felix decided to hold a grand opening ceremony for his brand new factory.
That morning, for the first time, a long red carpet was laid out in front of Argyle & Co. Foods.
Miller and his security team, which had expanded to fifty members, all changed into brand new, dark blue uniforms designed to resemble Federal Army officer dress uniforms.
Armed with loaded guns, they stood in two lines, like the most elite honor guard, making every arriving guest feel a sense of solemnity and order akin to a military restricted zone.
Catherine, dressed in a tasteful suit, stood at the entrance, elegantly greeting every distinguished guest.
"Mr. Gable, welcome."
She extended the warmest welcome to the company's initial partner.
"Oh, my God."
Mr. Gable looked at the colossal, fortress-like factory before him, and at Catherine, whose demeanor had completely transformed, and was too excited to speak.
"Catherine... child. I can hardly believe my eyes."
"Mr. Charles, Mr. Bill." Catherine greeted two important allies who had traveled from Chicago overnight.
"The Boss has been waiting for you for a long time."
"Haha!"
Bill looked at the magnificent sight before him and let out a booming laugh.
"I knew it all along, that Felix fellow, a pond simply can't hold him!"
Reeves, on the other hand, observed with the discerning eye of an engineer.
"Perfect layout, powerful core, Felix has built a perfect machine."
Subsequently, Mr. Tilford's carriage, New York banker Mr. Harrison's carriage, and even the chief secretary from the New York City Mayor's Office came to offer congratulations on behalf of the Mayor.
Finally, a carriage bearing the Federal Army flag stopped at the entrance.
Captain Carter stepped out in his sharpest military uniform.
"Mr. Argyle."
He looked at the scene before him, his eyes filled with awe.
"It seems I've arrived just in time."
"Welcome, Captain."
Felix walked out from inside the factory and shook hands with everyone.
"Welcome to the ceremony."
Felix personally acted as the guide for the day.
He led these influential figures, who controlled New York's commercial, political, and military lifelines, into the giant workshop that was emitting a low roar.
"Oh my goodness..."
The Mayor's secretary exclaimed, looking at the four parallel production lines stretching as far as the eye could see, and the floor beneath his feet, which was as clean as a mirror.
"Mr. Argyle, I have visited factories in Europe. None can compare to yours in scale and... cleanliness."
"In the food business, hygiene is paramount."
Felix replied with a smile to the Mayor's secretary.
Walking slowly along the production line.
"Gentlemen."
His voice was not loud, but clear enough for everyone around to hear.
"What you see now is not just a factory; it is a system, a brand new system I call 'industrialized food production'."
"Its starting point is here." He pointed to the input port.
"Every day, dozens of vehicles from the 'Metropolitan Meat United Company's' exclusive fleet transport the freshest beef from the slaughterhouse."
He glanced at Bill beside him.
Bill proudly puffed out his chest.
"This beef will be cleaned and cut here."
"Then, it enters our core: the twenty steam-powered giant copper pots."
"After precise time and temperature control, they will move to the canning and sealing areas."
"Finally, sterilization, cooling, and packaging. The finished products will go directly from the other end of the factory into our finished goods warehouse. There, they will board the special train opened for us by the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company, to be transported to major cities across the country."
He glanced at Reeves beside him, who also showed a satisfied smile.
"A perfect closed loop."
Mr. Tilford, the business magnate, praised sincerely.
"Argyle, you have established a business barrier that no one can easily imitate."
"So, what about its efficiency?"
Captain Carter asked his most pressing question.
Felix replied with a smile, "Efficiency? Please wait and see."
He nodded to Jones on the high platform.
Jones blew the sharp brass whistle that signaled the start of operations!
"Full line! Maximum power!"
"Boom—!!!"
The enormous steam engine, at that moment, let out its most primal and terrifying roar!
The ground of the entire factory floor began to tremble slightly.
The speed of the four production lines instantly increased to their maximum!
After countless drills, the workers, like the most elite soldiers, handled their tasks at their workstations with fluid precision.
Cutting, cooking, weighing, canning, sealing!
Boxes of finished products emerged from the end of the production line at a terrifying, visible speed!
All the guests were completely stunned by this industrial tableau, full of violent beauty.
They stood with their mouths open, unable to utter a single word.
Five minutes later, Jones blew the brass whistle again.
The factory returned to its steady cruising rhythm.
Felix, looking at the already dumbfounded crowd, stated calmly as if relaying a fact.
"Gentlemen, what you just witnessed was merely our factory's warm-up."
"At maximum power, we can produce over a thousand cans of finished product per hour here. Twenty-four hours a day, that's twenty-four thousand cans."
"Nine million cans a year."
"This number is enough to ensure that the entire Federal Regular Army will never have to worry about food in any war."
"Captain, now that you have seen our capabilities, please go back and inform General Reed."
"Argyle & Co. Foods is ready."
"We are awaiting a larger order that will truly allow this behemoth to operate at full throttle."
It is worth noting that the total annual consumption of canned goods in the United States at that time was only about five million cans.
The army's order of five hundred thousand cans was only a little over a month's production.
Currently, Felix's newly established sales department had not yet fully covered the federal sales channels, hence the need for more military orders.
That evening, in Felix's huge private lounge on the top floor of the factory.
A small private celebration was being held.
All the core members—Bill, Reeves, Miller, and Jones—were thoroughly drunk.
Only Felix and Catherine remained sober.
"Felix, congratulations."
Catherine poured him a glass of red wine.
"Today, you are the king of New York."
"No, Catherine. Today is just my first small roar into this world."
Looking out the window at the factory built under his will.
"The journey has just begun."
The grand opening ceremony of the new factory, like a perfect storm, swept across New York's business and political circles.
The next day's newspapers, even the most prominent 'New York Tribune,' unusually devoted a large amount of space to reporting on the event.
Fowler, a columnist who has now made a name for himself in the Chicago media, also specially wrote an impassioned and inflammatory feature for a New York newspaper.
The article's title was simple and powerful: 'The Arsenal of the United States.'
He depicted Argyle & Co. Foods as the ultimate symbol of northern industrial power.
He portrayed Felix as a leader in the industrial food industry.
This article, coupled with the praise from the mayor's secretary and businessmen at various private parties, together propelled Felix and his company to an unprecedented peak of prestige.
The surge in prestige brought a flood of civilian orders.
There was also a military letter personally delivered by Captain Carter.
"Mr. Argyle."
In Felix's office, Captain Carter's tone was filled with military directness.
"General Reed is very satisfied with your factory's production capacity. He and the Department of the Army have reached a consensus. They hope to double the previous five-hundred-thousand-dollar contract."
"One million dollars?"
Catherine, standing nearby, couldn't help but let out a soft gasp.
"Yes, a total of one million dollars," Captain Carter confirmed with a nod.
"This is the largest order the Federal Army has ever placed for food procurement. The General says he believes you are the only one capable of taking it on."
"Please inform His Excellency the General."
Felix raised an eyebrow, replying calmly and confidently.
"His trust has not been misplaced. Argyle & Co. Foods, barring force majeure, guarantees to complete the order on time."
When Captain Carter left, satisfied with this astronomical contract, the joyful atmosphere in the office lasted less than three minutes.
Jones knocked and entered... "Boss."
Production Supervisor Jones, pointing to the upward-climbing production curve on the blackboard, spoke with pride and a hint of worry.
"Our output has stabilized at twenty-five thousand cans. However, Miss Catherine's latest report shows that several of our tin can suppliers are struggling to keep up with our pace."
Catherine nodded, adding.
"Yes, Boss. Last week, I signed exclusive supply agreements with all seven established can-making workshops around New York."
She pointed to some data, adding with some difficulty.
"But even so, their theoretical combined capacity is only twelve thousand cans per day. This is their limit, working twenty-four-hour shifts regardless of cost. And the largest one, Mr. Finn's workshop, his old machines have broken down twice in the past week."
"A very fragile balance."
Felix's index finger tapped rhythmically on the table.
"Twelve thousand in supply, corresponding to twenty-five thousand in consumption, a difference of half. These are all manageable, we can just find a few more suppliers."
"But what I'm worried about isn't that."
Felix's gaze drifted out the window, his tone growing profound.
"What I'm worried about is their upstream. The steel mills in Baltimore and Philadelphia that supply them with tinplate."
He looked at his core team.
"The war has been going on for a year. The size of the Federal Army is expanding daily. Have you considered what is needed to make rifles? What is needed to make the revolvers you carry on your belts?"
"Steel."
Miller, the security chief, replied in a deep voice.
"Exactly, steel."
"Soon, this most basic industrial raw material will become a strategic commodity more valuable than gold. At that time, the military will inevitably issue requisition orders, and most non-essential civilian steel supplies will be cut off. Tell me, everyone, at that time, will Finn and their seven small workshops still be able to get even a single sheet of tinplate?"
Silence fell in the office.
Everyone felt a chill at Felix's far-sighted prediction.
"So, Boss," Catherine's eyes sparkled with admiration and affection, "did you actually foresee this crisis today?"
"I just make a habit of thinking through the worst-case scenarios in advance."
Felix's face showed a smile of complete control.
No sooner had he spoken than a clerk, looking flustered, knocked and entered.
In her hand was a stack of urgent telegrams just received from different suppliers.
"Boss... Supervisor O'Brien..."
The clerk's voice trembled slightly.
"Mr. Finn, and the other six workshops, sent the same message almost simultaneously."
"They said their tinplate suppliers have officially informed them that, due to a priority requisition order from the Department of the Army, they will suspend all tinplate supplies to them for at least the next three months."
This news made Jones and Miller's eyes widen. How could he be so accurate?
Only Catherine was a little better, as she still had great faith in Felix's grasp of the situation.
"Alright," Felix stood up.
"Now the crisis is officially before us. But this is not necessarily a bad thing; danger can also hide opportunities, just as destruction brings new life. This may not be a bad thing for us."
He walked to the desk and began issuing a series of commands he had rehearsed countless times in his mind.
"First, appease and integrate our suppliers." He looked at Catherine.
"Immediately, in the company's name, invite the owners of all seven workshops to our factory for a supplier meeting. Tell them that Argyle & Co. Foods will not abandon them. On the contrary, we will offer them a better future."
"What future?"
"Acquire them."
Felix's answer was simple and direct.
"Although their workshops are old, they have the most skilled can-making workers in New York. I want the people, and I want the machines.
When you talk to them, the price can be a bit more generous. But there's one precondition: all the workers must be retained completely."
"Second, solve the raw material problem."
"Also, Catherine, on my behalf, send an urgent letter to Senator Clark in Washington. Detail to him the enormous crisis our 'core military supplier' is facing, on the verge of halting production due to raw material shortages.
Don't make any demands; we just state the facts. I believe His Excellency the Senator will know better than us how to communicate with the Department of the Army."
"Third, and most crucial."
He turned to Jones and Smith, who had been waiting nearby.
"Smith. How is the prototype of the 'steam semi-automatic can-making machine' that I asked you to secretly develop coming along?"
"Reporting, Boss!"
Smith was flushed with excitement.
"We succeeded! It... it's a miracle! It really can turn an entire sheet of tinplate into a perfect can, just as you drew in the blueprints. Its speed is fifty times faster than the fastest worker in the workshop!"
"Very good," Felix nodded in satisfaction.
"Then Jones, Smith. Your task is to immediately set up our own manufacturing plant in the vacant new factory building. I want you to install and debug three of these new machines for me within two weeks!"
"Finally," Felix looked at everyone, "before the manufacturing plant equipment is ready, we cannot sit idly by."
He picked up an elegantly shaped glass bottle.
"Tinplate is controlled by the military, but glass is not."
Felix's face showed a meaningful smile.
"From today onwards, all our gold label and red label civilian series supplied to Mr. Tilford and other shops in the uptown area will be replaced with this more aesthetically pleasing and premium glass bottle packaging."
"We will launch a new round of publicity in the newspapers. The theme will be: 'What you see is what you trust most.'"
"We will tell those wealthy ladies that only the highest quality dares to showcase itself in transparent glass. We will turn this crisis into an unprecedented brand upgrade!"
"As for the canned goods we produce for the army..."
He paused.
"Before the manufacturing plant is ready, we will temporarily maintain the minimum necessary supply using our existing stock and all the stock and capacity of those seven workshops."
Thus, a response plan consisting of four parts—mergers and acquisitions, political pressure, technological innovation, and brand upgrading—was clearly laid out by Felix.
Everyone in the office, for what was perhaps the umpteenth time this year, looked at their Boss with adoration.
He was like the most brilliant chess player, always seeing three steps ahead of everyone else.
And turning crisis into an advantageous move.
"Go," Felix waved his hand, "Let our machines run at full speed again."
"I want everyone to see that any crisis that tries to kill us will ultimately only make us stronger."
Argyle & Co. Foods gathered almost all the well-known canning workshop owners in New York.
There were seven people in total.
At this moment, their faces were filled with confusion and despair, including Mr. Finn, who was the first to do business with Argyle.
"Mr. Argyle,"
Finn, as the representative of the group, was the first to speak, his voice hoarse and weak.
"You... You called us all here because of the breach of contract?"
Before Argyle could speak, another workshop owner quickly and dejectedly explained.
"Mr. Argyle, we know we breached the contract by not supplying the goods."
"But we didn't want to; it was the army and the war that cut off our livelihoods! Without tinplate, our workshops are just a pile of scrap metal!"
Seeing that the others wanted to continue explaining, Argyle raised his hand to interrupt them.
"Gentlemen."
"I invited you here today not to cancel contracts, nor to listen to your grievances."
"I invited you here to offer you a new, and the only, way out."
He glanced at Catherine beside him.
Catherine immediately understood and distributed already prepared documents to each workshop owner.
The workshop owners were a bit confused, thinking they were being held accountable.
"This is..."
"A letter of intent for acquisition," Catherine answered everyone's doubt.
"Gentlemen, your workshops, as independent businesses, are dead. This is a cruel, unchangeable fact in wartime."
"But your experience, and the most skilled can-making workers in New York under you, are still valuable assets in the Boss's eyes."
After Catherine finished speaking, Argyle then spoke, revealing his plan.
"Therefore, I have decided that Argyle & Co. Foods will fully acquire the workshops of each of you present."
"I will acquire all your equipment and inventory at the current actual value of your workshops. At the same time, I will provide all your workers with a higher-paying and more stable long-term employment contract. They will become official employees of my Williams Company."
"And you can choose to take this money, exit the industry gracefully, and start a new life."
Argyle looked at them silently, then changed the subject, throwing out another more tempting option.
"Or you can choose to stay and become the first batch of workshop supervisors in the manufacturing plant I am about to establish. The salary may not be more than what a workshop owner earns, but it offers stability."
The workshop owners, looking at the generous terms of the contract in their hands, didn't think twice and chose to continue following Mr. Argyle.
After all, with what had happened, no one but Mr. Argyle would care about the fate of their workshops.
By then, workers would resign, and machines would be treated as scrap metal.
What's more, the seven of their workshops gained some renown in New York only because of orders from Argyle & Co. Foods.
Without Argyle, they were nothing.
So, half an hour later, all seven contracts were signed.
Argyle, without bloodshed, integrated almost all the skilled workers in New York's canning industry under his command.
After solving the problems of personnel and equipment, Argyle immediately began to address the most critical raw material issue.
In addition to sending a telegram to Clark, he also planned to contact General Reed.
Because he knew that against bureaucracy, sometimes the artillery fire from the front lines was much more effective than the gentle breezes from the rear.
He personally wrote a letter to Captain Carter.
The content of the letter was concise and full of urgency.
"Captain, I regret to inform you. Due to the military's comprehensive requisition of the key strategic material 'tinplate,' my company, as the largest food supplier to the Federal Army, will be forced to completely halt its production lines in the coming days."
"This means that all subsequent deliveries for the new one-million-dollar contract we signed with the military will be indefinitely delayed."
"This matter could have a catastrophic impact on General Reed's logistical support for the upcoming summer offensive in the Eastern Seaboard theater."
"I personally deeply regret this but am powerless to do anything."
Argyle was not flustered, because the order contract clearly stated that the company was not responsible for force majeure factors, and he was not the one most anxious.
This letter was personally delivered by Miller to Captain Carter on Governors Island.
After Carter received and read the letter, cold sweat immediately broke out on his face. He rushed into General Reed's office with the letter, not even bothering with Miller who was waiting nearby.
That afternoon, a stern letter of inquiry personally signed by General Reed, and an urgent report supplemented by Captain Carter about the "potential collapse of front-line logistics," reached the desk of the Secretary of the Department of the Army in Washington via the military's telegraph system.
And in Washington, Senator Clark, who had been waiting for a long time, simultaneously launched his "concern" to the Department of the Army from another direction.
A three-dimensional "tinplate struggle" orchestrated by Argyle behind the scenes, spanning the military, political, and commercial sectors, officially began.
The final outcome was obvious; regardless of the volunteer army's logistics, the logistics of the twenty thousand regular troops had to be met.
So the effect was immediate.
The next morning, a "Highest Priority" strategic material allocation order, personally signed by the Secretary of the Department of the Army, was delivered to Argyle's office.
Argyle & Co. Foods was officially designated a "Federal War Core Guarantee Enterprise."
They would have the highest priority tinplate allocation quota, second only to arsenals.
The steel mill in Baltimore was ordered to resume raw material supply to Williams Company within twenty-four hours.
Meanwhile, in New York's civilian market, Argyle's brand upgrade plan also achieved great success.
In Mr. Tilford's trading house, the business magnate was admiring a beautifully packaged "Gold Label" glass canning jar, unable to put it down.
"Argyle, you are a business genius."
"My customers are going crazy for it! They say this is a true work of art worthy of their dining tables. They even keep the jars for other uses after eating what's inside!"
Argyle sat on the sofa, making no comment, but first clarified the price.
"But you understand, glass bottles cost more than tin cans."
"Of course, but that's completely fine." Tilford didn't mind that the purchase price would increase, as the selling price could also be raised then.
"My female customers are very happy to pay thirty percent more for this 'visible sense of security' and 'additional value.' Our profits are even higher!"
Two weeks later.
Inside the new factory, a manufacturing plant with a huge steam engine and three production lines officially began operations.
Argyle, accompanied by Catherine, Jones, and Smith, as well as the seven former workshop owners who were now his workshop supervisors, stood before the prototype of the automatic steam canning machine, which Smith had personally built according to Argyle's blueprints.
"Smith, begin."
"Yes, Boss!"
Smith, the experienced master craftsman, personally pulled down the main valve.
Accompanied by a grating sound of metal friction and steam.
This steel beast, embodying Argyle's wisdom of the era, awoke.
A plain tinplate was fed into one end of the machine.
After cutting, rolling, pressing, seaming... five seconds later.
With a crisp "clink."
A brand new tin can, gleaming with metallic luster, rolled out from the other end of the machine.
Following it were the second, third, fourth... continuously, like an endless river of steel.
Some master craftsmen, who had worked with iron for half their lives, were collectively speechless.