“Too bad the machine has gone wrong just now,” said Horne, stooping to examine a bolt. “There’s that order from Slipper & Tie, at Sacramento, ought to be ready by to-morrow. What the deuce ails the thing, anyway?”
There was a sort of whirring, as of wheels in the air, and then in a clear, metallic voice, came the words:
“I’ve struck. That’s what ails me.”
Horne started back from the lever over which he was bending, and looked at Hyde in alarm. “Did you speak just then?” he asked.
“N-o,”—faltered Hyde, “I didn’t speak, and I don’t know who did.”
Again the clear, metallic tones were heard issuing directly from one of the machine’s great knives. “It was I who spoke,” said the voice. “You were wondering what ailed me, and I gave you the desired information.” The words were clipped off sharply and incisively, as though the knife fancied they were a particularly tough sort of leather, that must be trimmed with especial accuracy.
“Who are you?” gasped Horne.
“I am the cutter and shaper,” said the voice. “You asked what ailed me, and I answered your question. I have struck.”
“What have you struck?” Hyde managed to ask.
“Struck work. I shall strike you, next, if you ask such stupid questions,” was the reply, and the capitalist assumed a more respectful tone.