“Yes, we have nineteen members now and there are often fifty at the meetings.”
“There’s a stride!” said Sidney. “We used to be proud of ourselves if we could say ‘we are seven,’ didn’t we? Well, I would like to hear your addresses.”
“You have some news to give me, I am sure,” said the man, who, during the conversation manipulated his lever with the mechanical precision of a man whom practice has made almost automatic.
Sidney flushed.
“Could you come out for a few minutes’ quiet talk?” he asked.
“I shall see,” said the man, turning a knob which arrested the wheels. He went to a man almost as grimy as himself, but who wore a coat. Sidney looked about him with shuddering disgust at the surroundings.
The machinery beside him shivered with the suppressed energy kept in check by the knob the man had turned. It seemed to Sidney a symbol of the eager soul of the man whom he had come to see, prisoned by circumstances within the circumference of petty cares, yet quivering and throbbing with divine energy.
The man was returning pleased with the little boon of time he had gained. The circumstances gripped Sidney’s heart. He felt his own freedom and ease a reproach.
The man led the way, turning down the sleeves of his grey flannel shirt. He passed broad-shouldered between the whizzing belts, one touch of which meant mutilation. Sidney edged his way gingerly after him. The spaces between the whirling wheels seemed very narrow.
The workman led the way out into a desolate but sunny little courtyard. A high wall enclosed it; great heaps of packing cases filled one corner; a freight car, run in upon a little row of rails, stood just within the gate.