Part 88

"It's all right." He drew out a ledger from beneath the desk. "What's your letter?"

"Letter?" The man looked startled for a moment.

"Yes, initial of your last name."

"G."

The manager found the letter, thrust in his finger, opened the page indicated and shoved the book over the desk towards the applicant. He handed him his pen.

"Write your name, your age, and what you're native of." He indicated the columns.

The man took the pen. He seemed at first slightly awkward in handling it. The entry he made was as follows:

"Louis C. Googe--thirty-four--United States."

The manager glanced at it. "That's a common enough name in Maine and these parts," he said. Then he pointed through the window. "That's the shed over there--the middle one. The boss'll give you some tools till you get yours."

"Thank you." The man put on his cap and went out.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" was all the manager said as he looked after the applicant. Then he rose, went to the office door and watched the man making his way through the stone-yards towards the sheds. "Well, boys," he said further, turning to the two men bending over the plans, "that suit ain't exactly a misfit, but it hasn't seen the light of day for a good many years--and it's the same with the man. What in thunder is he doing in the sheds! Did he say anything specially to you before I came in?"

"No; only he seemed mighty interested in the plans, examined the detail of some of them--as if he knew."

"We'll keep our eyes on him." The manager went back to his desk.

Perhaps the dreariest environment imaginable is a stone-cutters' shed on a bleak day in the first week in March. The large ones stretching along the north shore of Lake Mesantic are no exception to this statement. A high wind from the northeast was driving before it particles of ice, and now and then a snow flurry. It penetrated every crack and crevice of the huge buildings, the second and largest of which covered a ground space of more than an acre. Every gust made itself both felt and heard among the rafters. Near the great doors the granite dust whirled in eddies.

At this hour in the afternoon Shed Number Two was a study in black and gray and white. Gray dust several inches thick spread underfoot; all about were gray walls, gray and white granite piles, gray columns, arches, uncut blocks, heaps of granite waste, gray workmen in gray blouses and canvas aprons covered with gray dust. In one corner towered the huge gray-black McDonald machine in mighty strength, its multiple revolving arms furnished with gigantic iron fists which manipulate the unyielding granite with Herculean automatonism--an invention of the film-like brain of man to conquer in a few minutes the work of nature's aeons! Gray-black overhead stretched the running rails for the monster electric travelling crane; some men crawling out on them looked like monkeys. Here and there might be seen the small insignificant "Lewis Key"--a thing that may be held on a woman's palm--sustaining a granite weight of many tons.

There were three hundred men at work in this shed, and the ringing chip-chip-chipping monotone from the hundreds of hammers and chisels, filled the great space with industry's wordless song that has its perfect harmony for him who listens with open ears and expansive mind.

Jim McCann was at work near the shed doors which had been opened several times since one o'clock to admit the flat cars with the granite. He was alternately blowing on his benumbed fingers and cursing the doors and the draught that was chilling him to the marrow. The granite dust was swirling about his legs and rising into his nostrils. It lacked a half-hour to four.

Two cars rolled in silently.

"Shut thim damned doors, man!" he shouted across to the door-tender; "God kape us but we' it's our last death we'll be ketchin' before we can clane out our lungs o' the dust we've swallowed the day. It's after bein' wan damned slitherin' whorl of grit in the nose of me since eight the morn."

He struck hard on his chisel and a spark flew. A workman, an Italian, laughed.

"That's arll-rright, Jim--fire up!"

"You kape shet," growled McCann. He was unfriendly as a rule to the Dagos. "It's in me blood," was his only excuse.

"An' if it's a firin' ye be after," he continued, "ye'll get it shurre if ye lave off workin' to warm up yer tongue wid such sass.--Shut thim doors!" he shouted again; but a gust of wind failed to carry his voice in the desired direction.

In the swirling roar and the small dust-spout that followed in its wake, Jim and the workmen in his cold section were aware of a man who had been half-blown in with the whirling dust. He took shelter for a moment by the inner wall. The foreman saw him and recognized him for the man who, the manager had just telephoned, was coming over from the office. He came forward to meet him.

"You're the man who has just taken on a job in Shed Number Two?"

"Yes."

The foreman signed to one of the men and told him to bring an extra set of tools.

"Here's your section," he said indicating McCann's; "you can begin on this block--just squaring it for to-night."