alesman
looked at the head of the house.

But here was a new variety to him, these frank and familiar glances
thrown in answer to the nodded greeting or short sentence of the boss as
he walked about. They were not so much friendly (although they were that
too), as they were familiar and open, as though nothing lay hidden
behind the apparent expression. It was not often that Mr. Welles had
encountered that, a look that seemed to hide nothing.

He wondered if he could find out anything about this from Mr. Crittenden
and put a question to him about his relations with his men. He tried to
make it tactful and sensible-sounding, but as he said the words, he knew
just how flat and parlor-reformerish they sounded; and it didn't
surprise him a bit to have the business-man bristle up and snap his head
off. It had sounded as though he didn't know a thing about business--he,
the very marrow of whose bones was soaked in a bitter knowledge that the
only thing that could keep it going was the fear of death in every man's
heart, lest the others get ahead of him and trample him down.

He decided that he wouldn't say another thing, just endure the temporary
boredom of being trotted about to have things explained to him, which he
hadn't any intention of trying to understand.

But Mr. Crittenden did not try to explain. Perhaps he was bored himself,
perhaps he guessed the visitor's ignorance. He just walked around from
one part of the big, sunshiny shops to another, taking advantage of this
opportunity to look things over for his own purposes. And everywhere he
went, he gave and received back that curious, new look of openness.

It was not noisy here as in the saw-mill, but very quiet and peaceful,
the bee-like whirring of the belts on the pulleys the loudest continuous
sound. It was clean, too. The hardwood floor was being swept clean of
sawdust and shavings all the time, by a lame old man, who pottered
tranquilly about, sweeping and cleaning and putting the trash in a big
box on a truck. When he had it full, he beckoned to a burly lad, shoving
a truck across the room, and called in a clear, natural, friendly voice,
"Hey, Nat, come on over." The big lad came, whistling, pushed the box
off full, and brought it back empty, still whistling airily.

There were a good many work-people in sight. Mr. Welles made a guessing
estimate that the business must keep about two hundred busy. And there
was not one who looked harried by his work. The b