"Oh, it's easy enough," replied Rosalie, lightly. "Don't be afraid; you've only got to load the trucks."
"Oh!..."
"And when it's full," continued Rosalie, "you push it along to the place where they empty it. You give a good shove to begin with, then it'll go all alone."
As they passed down the corridors they could scarcely hear each other speak for the noise of the machinery. Rosalie pushed open the door of one of the workshops and took Perrine into a long room. There was a deafening roar from the thousand tiny machines, yet above the noise they could hear a man calling out: "Ah, there you are, you loafer!"
"Who's a loafer, pray?" retorted Rosalie. "That ain't me, just understand that, Father Ninepins."
"Skinny told me to bring my friend to you to work on the trucks."
The one whom she had addressed in this amiable manner was an old man with a wooden leg. He had lost his leg in the factory twelve years previous, hence his nickname, "Ninepins." He now had charge of a number of girls whom he treated rudely, shouting and swearing at them. The working of these machines needed as much attention of the eye as deftness of hand in lifting up the full spools and replacing them with empty ones, and fastening the broken thread. He was convinced that if he did not shout and swear at them incessantly, emphasizing each curse with a stout bang of his wooden leg on the floor, he would see his machines stop, which to him was intolerable. But as he was a good man at heart, no one paid much attention to him, and besides, the greater part of his cursing was lost in the noise of the machinery.
"Yes, and with it all, your machine has stopped," cried Rosalie triumphantly, shaking her fist at him.
"Go on with you," he shouted back; "that ain't my fault."