“I’ve seen the like,” said Knox. “Stuff you’d think couldn’t hold together. It’s got to find every tiny crevice of the mould; but such pulp takes the dyes exceeding well.”
“Our dyes are Trenchard’s secret,” answered Dingle. “He’s a great chemist, as a paper master needs to be. I’d give a lot to look in the laboratory; but only Trood goes there.”
“A very understanding foreman is Ernest Trood,” admitted Mr. Knox; then he turned to Medora.
“How’s they fingers?” he asked.
“Better,” she said. “You knock your fingers about rattling them against the crib.”
“The fingers always suffer,” he admitted. “For my part I shake when there’s a spell of very hot pulp for the thick papers. I’m feared of my life the skin will go somewhere and put me out of action for a bit. If some man could invent a possible glove, many a tender-skinned vatman would bless him. But a glove would kill the stroke no doubt.”
Dingle pressed more food from their basket on Medora and the well meant action apparently annoyed her. What passed between them was not heard, save the last words.
“Don’t be a fool,” she said. “Can’t I have my own way even in that?”
“Hush!” replied Ned. “Have it as you will.”
But she grew angry; her face lowered and she pressed her lips together.