multitude that pressed onward through the dark. As he entered the
factory gate the whistle blew again. He glanced at the east. Across a
ragged sky-line of housetops a pale light was beginning to creep. This
much he saw of the day as he turned his back upon it and joined his work
gang.

He took his place in one of many long rows of machines. Before him,
above a bin filled with small bobbins, were large bobbins revolving
rapidly. Upon these he wound the jute-twine of the small bobbins. The
work was simple. All that was required was celerity. The small bobbins
were emptied so rapidly, and there were so many large bobbins that did
the emptying, that there were no idle moments.

He worked mechanically. When a small bobbin ran out, he used his left
hand for a brake, stopping the large bobbin and at the same time, with
thumb and forefinger, catching the flying end of twine. Also, at the
same time, with his right hand, he caught up the loose twine-end of
a small bobbin. These various acts with both hands were performed
simultaneously and swiftly. Then there would come a flash of his hands
as he looped the weaver's knot and released the bobbin. There was
nothing difficult about weaver's knots. He once boasted he could tie
them in his sleep. And for that matter, he sometimes did, toiling
centuries long in a single night at tying an endless succession of
weaver's knots.

Some of the boys shirked, wasting time and machinery by not replacing
the small bobbins when they ran out. And there was an overseer to
prevent this. He caught Johnny's neighbour at the trick, and boxed his
ears.

"Look at Johnny there--why ain't you like him?" the overseer wrathfully
demanded.

Johnny's bobbins were running full blast, but he did not thrill at the
indirect praise. There had been a time... but that was long ago, very
long ago. His apathetic face was expressionless as he listened to
himself being held up as a shining example. He was the perfect worker.
He knew that. He had been told so, often. It was a commonplace, and
besides it didn't seem to mean anything to him any more. From the
perfect worker he had evolved into the perfect machine. When his work
went wrong, it was with him as with the machine, due to faulty material.
It would have been as possible for a perfect nail-die to cut imperfect
nails as for him to make a mistake.

And small wonder. There had never been a time when he had not been in
intimate relationship with machines. Machi