still another room which, filled with bins as was the other,
was piled high in every bin with bolts of white cloth.
“You might as well know a little about this as long as you’re
going to begin in the shrinking room. This is the stuff from
which the collars are cut, the collars and the lining. They
are called webs. Each of these bolts is a web. We take
these down in the basement and shrink them because they
can’t be used this way. If they are, the collars would shrink
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after they were cut. But you’ll see. We tub them and then
dry them afterwards.”
He marched solemnly on and Clyde sensed once more that
this man was not looking upon him as an ordinary
employee by any means. His Mr. Griffiths, his supposition to
the effect that Clyde was to learn all about the
manufacturing end of the business, as well as his
condescension in explaining about these webs of cloth, had
already convinced Clyde that he was looked upon as one to
whom some slight homage at least must be paid.
He followed Mr. Whiggam, curious as to the significance of
this, and soon found himself in an enormous basement
which had been reached by descending a flight of steps at
the end of a third hall. Here, by the help of four long rows of
incandescent lamps, he discerned row after row of
porcelain tubs or troughs, lengthwise of the room, and end
to end, which reached from one exterior wall to the other.
And in these, under steaming hot water apparently, were
any quantity of those same webs he had just seen upstairs,
soaking. And near-by, north and south of these tubs, and
paralleling them for the length of this room, all of a hundred
and fifty feet in length, were enormous drying racks or
moving skeleton platforms, boxed, top and bottom and
sides, with hot steam pipes, between which on rolls, but
festooned in such a fashion as to take advantage of these
pipes, above, below and on either side, were more of these
webs, but unwound and wet and draped as described, yet
moving along slowly on these rolls from the east end of the
room to the west. This movement, as Clyde could see, was
accompanied by an enormous rattle and clatter of ratchet
arms which automatically shook and moved these lengths
of cloth forward from east to west. And as they moved they
dried, and were then automatically re-wound at the west
end of these racks into bolt form once more upon a wooden
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spool and then lifted off by a youth whose duty it was to
“take” from these moving platforms. One youth, as Clyde
saw, “took” from two of these tracks at the west end, while
at the east end another youth of about his own years “fed.”
That is, he took bolts of this now partially shrunk yet still wet
cloth and attaching one end of it to some moving hooks,
saw that it slowly and properly unwound and fed itself over
the drying racks for the entire length of these tracks. As fast
as it had gone the way of all webs, another was attached.
Between each two rows of tubs in the center of the room
were enormous whirling separators or dryers, into which
these webs of cloth, as they came from the tubs in which
they had been shrinking for twenty-four hours, were piled
and as much water as possible centrifugally extracted
before they were spread out on the drying racks.
Primarily little more than this mere physical aspect of the
room was grasped by Clyde—its noise, its heat, its steam,
the energy with which a dozen men and boys were busying
themselves with various processes. They were, without
exception, clothed only in armless undershirts, a pair of old
trousers belted in at the waist, and with canvas-topped and
rubber-soled sneakers on their bare feet. The water and the
general dampness and the heat of the room seemed
obviously to necessitate some such dressing as this.
“This is the shrinking room,” observed Mr. Whiggam, as
they entered. “It isn’t as nice as some of the others, but it’s
where the manufacturing process begins. Kemerer!” he
called.
A short, stocky, full-chested man, with a pale, full face and
white, strong-looking arms, dressed in a pair of dirty and
wrinkled trousers and an armless flannel shirt, now
appeared. Like Whiggam in the presence of Gilbert, he
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appeared to be very much overawed in the presence of
Whiggam.
“This is Clyde Griffiths, the cousin of Gilbert Griffiths. I
spoke to you about him last week, you remember?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s to begin down here. He’ll show up in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Better put his name down on your check list. He’ll begin at
the usual hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Whiggam, as Clyde noticed, held his head higher and
spoke more directly and authoritatively than at any time so
far. He seemed to be master, not underling, now.
“Seven-thirty is the time every one goes to work here in the
morning,” went on Mr. Whiggam to Clyde informatively, “but
they all ring in a little earlier—about seven-twenty or so, so
as to have time to change their clothes and get to the
machines.
“Now, if you want to,” he added, “Mr. Kemerer can show
you what you’ll have to do to-morrow before you leave
today. It might save a little time. Or, you can leave it until
then if you want to. It don’t make any difference to me.
Only, if you’ll come back to the telephone girl at the main
entrance about five-thirty I’ll have Mrs. Braley there for you.
She’s to show you about your room, I believe. I won’t be
there myself, but you just ask the telephone girl for her.
She’ll know.” He turned and added, “Well, I’ll leave you
now.”
He lowered his head and started to go away just as Clyde
began. “Well, I’m very much obliged to you, Mr. Whiggam.”
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Instead of answering, he waved one fishy hand slightly
upward and was gone—down between the tubs toward the
west door. And at once Mr. Kemerer—still nervous and
overawed apparently—began.
“Oh, that’s all right about what you have to do, Mr. Griffiths.
I’ll just let you bring down webs on the floor above to begin
with to-morrow. But if you’ve got any old clothes, you’d
better put ’em on. A suit like that wouldn’t last long here.”
He eyed Clyde’s very neat, if inexpensive suit, in an odd
way. His manner quite like that of Mr. Whiggam before him,
was a mixture of uncertainty and a very small authority here
in Clyde’s case—of extreme respect and yet some private
doubt, which only time might resolve. Obviously it was no
small thing to be a Griffiths here, even if one were a cousin
and possibly not as welcome to one’s powerful relatives as
one might be.
At first sight, and considering what his general dreams in
connection with this industry were, Clyde was inclined to
rebel. For the type of youth and man he saw here were in
his estimation and at first glance rather below the type of
individuals he hoped to find here—individuals neither so
intelligent nor alert as those employed by the Union League
and the Green-Davidson by a long distance. And still worse
he felt them to be much more subdued and sly and ignorant
—mere clocks, really. And their eyes, as he entered with
Mr. Whiggam, while they pretended not to be looking, were
very well aware, as Clyde could feel, of all that was going
on. Indeed, he and Mr. Whiggam were the center of all their
secret looks. At the same time, their spare and practical
manner of dressing struck dead at one blow any thought of
refinement in connection with the work in here. How
unfortunate that his lack of training would not permit his
being put to office work or something like that upstairs.
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He walked with Mr. Kemerer, who troubled to say that these
were the tubs in which the webs were shrunk over night—
these the centrifugal dryers—these the rack dryers. Then
he was told that he could go. And by then it was only three
o’clock.
He made his way out of the nearest door and once outside
he congratulated himself on being connected with this great
company, while at the same time wondering whether he
was going to prove satisfactory to Mr. Kemerer and Mr.
Whiggam. Supposing he didn’t. Or supposing he couldn’t
stand all this? It was pretty rough. Well, if worst came to
worst, as he now thought, he could go back to Chicago, or
on to New York, maybe, and get work.
But why hadn’t Samuel Griffiths had the graciousness to
receive and welcome him? Why had that young Gilbert