"That machine is picking the wool apart so that the air can get through it and help it to dry. After it is picked up light and fluffy we pass it through these heavy rollers, which are like wringers and which squeeze out the remaining moisture. Yet during all these processes we must always be careful not to snarl the wool. See, here is where it comes out white and clean, ready to go to the dyeing room."
Donald regarded the snowy fleeces with wonder.
"You would never dream it could be the same wool!" he said. "Isn't it beautiful? It is not much the way it looks when it leaves the ranch, is it, Thornton?"
"I should say not," agreed the Westerner emphatically. "The sheep ought to see how handsome their coats are."
"So they should!" answered the young bookkeeper. "You have been on a ranch then?"
"We have just come from one," Donald answered.
"Have you, indeed! It is a free life—not much like being shut up inside brick walls."
"You have been West yourself, perhaps," ventured Thornton.
"Yes, years ago—when I was a boy; but not recently."
"Ah, you should see the sheep country now!" Thornton went on. "It is much improved, I reckon, since you were there."