"No razor in his boot, though! There ain't no real fight in Tallow-Chops. Pass the mustard."
What a good life it was! And the chewing was good enough for a boss hobo, death on three fine squares or set-downs, and don't you forget it!
But Pete grubbed silently in Indian Annie's, who moaned to him about Jenny.
"Damn klootchman, I forget her," said Pete. Yet many days passed and he did not forget.
When they were all out of the Mill, Quin stood and stared at the dead saws without seeing them.
"It's hard lines: but I can't fire him," said Quin.
IX
For the workers, these Bees in a Wood Hive, the days passed swiftly. Oh, it was wonderful how they passed! The dawn broke up night's massed army and chased it into the Pacific Ocean, and round the quick little world, and again fled. The days went round like a wheel, like a saw. They came up and flowered: they died down and were not. Only Sunday stayed like a monstrous month, an oppression as all workers find it, an unnecessary day when every muscle and nerve ask for the habit of big work. We cursed and groaned on Sunday, tilikum, and if you don't like to believe it, there's no one will plug you for doing the other thing. Sunday wasn't an Oasis, it was a desert. On Monday it was, however, desirable: Tuesday pined for it: Wednesday yearned for it: Thursday screamed for it: Friday sickened for it and Saturday hallooed joyfully with it in sight. And by ten on Sunday the Workers loathed it.
But the swift days of work were the days. They streamed past like a mountain torrent. Even sad and sorry Pete found it so. He smote his wedges with his maul and, lo and behold! a day was dead; and the stars sang above the hills and the starlight gleamed on the Fraser's shining flood. He laid his head, his cabeza, on a pillow (unwashed) and it was day. Again it was night.