An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

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