laughed suddenly in the boy’s face, and turned away. The rest grinned.
“Arvie’s getting balmier than ever,” guffawed young Bill.
“Here, Carstor Hoil,” cried one of the smiths’ strikers, “how much oil will you take for a chew of terbaccer?”
“Teaspoonful?”
“No, two.”
“All right; let’s see the chew, first.”
“Oh, you’ll get it. What yer frighten’ of? … Come on, chaps, ‘n’ see Bill drink oil.”
Bill measured out some machine oil and drank it. He got the tobacco, and the others got what they called “the fun of seein’ Bill drink oil!”
The second bell rang, and Bill went up to the other end of the shop, where Arvie was already at work sweeping shavings from under a bench.
The young terror seated himself on the end of this bench, drummed his heels against the leg, and whistled. He was in no hurry, for his foreman had not yet arrived. He amused himself by lazily tossing chips at Arvie, who made no protest for a while. “It would be—better—for this country,” said the young terror, reflectively and abstractedly, cocking his eye at the whitewashed roof beams and feeling behind him on the bench for a heavier chip—“it would be better—for this country—if young fellers didn’t think so much about—about—racin’—and fightin’.”
“You let me alone,” said Arvie.
“Why, what’ll you do?” exclaimed Bill, bringing
