"Maybe that's the trouble. Too much patience is as bad as too much raising the devil."
"No…. It's something."
She turned to leave the room, when her father called after her: "Bonbright quit chawing castings to-night. He doesn't know it, but to-morrow he gets a new job…. Has all of that he needs. Knows how it feels."
"What's he going to do now?"
"Nice, light, pleasant job…. He'll be passing rear axles—made by his father—down a chute to the assembling track. Bet he'll need Saint Jacob's oil on his back to-morrow night. Give his wife a job."
"Why," she scolded, for she was on intimate terms with the factory, "that's common labor. He'll be working with Wops and Guineas and Polacks."
He nodded. "If he stands the gaff I'll ease up on him."
"If he doesn't?"
Lightener shrugged his shoulders.
"Dad," said Hilda, "sometimes you make me MAD…."