“Here they are!” cried Ruth. “Look, Wallace, here are the bake ovens!”
All that could be seen on one side of the room was a long row of black oven doors, set in a low white-tiled wall.
On the other side of the room were large oblong tables, around which the white-uniformed bakers were busily working.
The dough was piled high on the tables. One baker cut it into lumps. Another made the lumps into pound loaves, weighing them on a scale. Another shaped the loaves and put them into rows of pans, which were slipped into large racks and wheeled to the oven door.
“Look,” said Wallace, “they are going to put them in!”
A baker put four loaves on a long-handled flat shovel; then quickly opened the oven door and slipped them inside.
“Look at the loaves!” cried Wallace, peeping into the open door. “Hundreds of them. How many will that oven hold?”
“Six hundred,” said the baker, closing the door.
“Look,” cried Ruth, “they are taking them out of that other oven. There comes our loaf for breakfast, Wallace.”
Farther down the room a baker was lifting out of an oven the nut-brown loaves, bringing with them the sweet smell of fresh bread.