"Yes, sir."
"Why?"
She looked up at him, considering the matter. Why did she like it there? "Because," she said, slowly, "it doesn't seem like just a—a—big, grinding machine, and the people working here like wheels and pulleys and little machines. It all feels ALIVE, and—and—we feel like human beings."
"Huh!…" he grunted, and frowned down at her. "Brains," he said. "Mighty good thing to have. Took brains to be able to think that—and say it." He turned away, then said, suddenly, over his shoulder, "Got any bombs in your desk?"
"Bombs!…"
"Because," he said, with no trace of a smile, "we don't allow little girls to bring bombs in here…. If you see anything around that you think needs an infernal machine set off under it, why, you come and tell me. See?… Tell me before you explode anything—not after. You anarchists are apt to get the cart before the horse."
"I'm not an anarchist, Mr. Lightener."
"Huh!… What are you, then?"
"I think—I'm sure I'm a Socialist."
"All of the same piece of cloth…. Mind, if you feel a bomb coming on—see me about it." He walked away to stop by the desk of a mailing clerk and enter into some kind of conversation with the boy.