"Then if you are bound to discharge him any way, there would be nothing wrong in my taking the place, would there?"
"Certainly not. Some one else will have it if you don't."
Mr. Farrington's assurance that there would be nothing dishonorable in the proposed course seemed to satisfy Fred's compunctions to some extent; still, as he entered the mill the next morning at the call of the shrill whistle, long before daylight, he could not help feeling a little guilty. He also felt that he was entering upon a new career, and one that seemed anything but pleasing. An utter change had taken place in his life. He was now only a common factory hand, and was about to begin work as such.
The "flockers" were located under the stairs, down in the basement of the mill, in a dark and dingy corner. When Fred arrived there, he saw standing beside one of the machines a medium sized man with small gray eyes, that were shaded with immense bushy brows nearly an inch in length. His features were dull and expressionless, and over the lower portion of his wrinkled face a scraggy, mud colored beard seemed struggling for existence. His clothing appeared to indicate a penurious, grasping nature.
A single look at this uncouth specimen was sufficient to make our young friend shudder at the thought of being under his control; however, he walked straight up to him, and said:
"Is this Mr. Hanks?"
"That's my name—Christopher Hanks. Be you the new boy?"
"Yes, sir."
"What's yer name?"
"My name is Fred Worthington."