Maguire looked at the note first, and shoved it into his pocket; then he squinted at Bonbright—at his face first; then, with a quizzical glint, at his clothes. Bonbright flushed. For the first time in his life he was ashamed of his clothes, and for a reason that causes few men to be ashamed of their clothes. He wished they were of cheaper cloth, of less expensive tailoring. He wished, most of all, that the bright new overalls in the bundle under his arm were concealing them from view.
"You're a hell of a looking machinist," said Maguire.
Bonbright felt it to be a remarkably true saying.
"The boss takes this for a darn kindergarten," Maguire complained.
"Ever run a lathe or a shaper or a planer?"
"No."
"He said to stick you on a lathe…. Huh! What's he know about it?… How's he expect this room to make a showing if it's goin' to be charged with guys like you that hain't nothin' but an expense?"
Bonbright got the idea back of that. Maguire was personally interested in results; Maguire wanted his room to beat other rooms in the weekly reports; Maguire was working for something more than wages—he was playing the game of manufacturing to win.
"You go on a planer," Maguire snapped, "and Gawd help you if you spoil more castings than I figger you ought to…. The boys here'll make it hot for you if you pull down their average."
So the boys were interested, too. The thing extended downward from the bosses!
"Goin' to work in them clothes?" asked Maguire, with a grin.