“Yes. I'm sure of it. I've felt that he has a great, brave heart. It's only that he has to be kind in his own way—because he can't understand any other way.”
“Ah yes,” said Bibbs. “If that's what you mean by 'kind'!”
She looked at him gravely, earnest concern in her friendly eyes. “It's going to be pretty hard for you, isn't it?”
“Oh—self-pity!” he returned, smiling. “This has been just the last flicker of revolt. Nobody minds work if he likes the kind of work. There'd be no loafers in the world if each man found the thing that he could do best; but the only work I happen to want to do is useless—so I have to give it up. To-morrow I'll be a day-laborer.”
“What is it like—exactly?”
“I get up at six,” he said. “I have a lunch-basket to carry with me, which is aristocratic and no advantage. The other workmen have tin buckets, and tin buckets are better. I leave the house at six-thirty, and I'm at work in my overalls at seven. I have an hour off at noon, and work again from one till five.”
“But the work itself?”
“It wasn't muscularly exhausting—not at all. They couldn't give me a heavier job because I wasn't good enough.”
“But what will you do? I want to know.”
“When I left,” said Bibbs, “I was 'on' what they call over there a 'clipping-machine,' in one of the 'by-products' departments, and that's what I'll be sent back to.”