"No, no," said Mary, "it—it's about women—" Mac stared at her, but when she added "—about women working in the factory," he drew a breath of relief.
"Aye," he said, "I think I can promise to keep quiet about that."
"Isn't it true," she began, "that most of the machinery we use doesn't require a great deal of skill to run it?"
"We've a lot of automatics," acknowledged Mac. "Your grandfather's idea, Miss Mary. A grand man. He was one of the first to make the machine think instead of the operator."
"How long does it take to break in an ordinary man?"
"A few weeks is generally enough. It depends on the man and the tool."
Mary told him then what she had in her mind, and Mac didn't think much of it until she showed him the photographs. Even then he was "michty cautious" until he happened to turn to the picture of a munition factory in Glasgow where row after row of overalled women were doing the lathe work.
"Think of that now," said he; "in Glasga'!" As he looked, the frost left his eye. "A grand lot of lasses," he said and cleared his throat.
"If they can do it, we can do it, too—don't you think so?"
"Why not?" he asked. "For let me tell you this, Miss Mary. Those old countries are all grand countries—to somebody's way of thinking. But America is the grandest of them all, or they wouldn't keep coming here as fast as ships can bring them! What they can do, yes, we can do—and add something for good measure, if need be!"