"All they want here is a head," he thought.

He shook his own. The brain within was well developed with healthy
exercise. It filled its case, and did not rattle like a withered kernel,
or sound soft like a rotten one. It was a vigorous, muscular brain. The
owner felt that he could trust it for an effort, as he could his lungs for
a shout, his legs for a leap, or his fist for a knock-down argument.

At the tap of the bell, the "bad lot" of men came together. They numbered
more than two hundred, though the Foundry was working short. They had been
notified that "that gonoph of a Whiffler was kicked out, and a new feller
was in, who looked cranky enough, and wanted to see 'em and tell 'em
whether he was a damn' fool or not."

So all hands collected from the different parts of the Foundry to see the
head.

They came up with easy and somewhat swaggering bearing,--a good many
roughs, with here and there a ruffian. Several, as they approached, swung
and tossed, for mere overplus of strength, the sledges with which they had
been tapping at the bald shiny pates of their anvils. Several wielded
their long pokers like lances.

Grimy chaps, all with their faces streaked, like Blackfeet in their
warpaint. Their hairy chests showed, where some men parade elaborate
shirt-bosoms. Some had their sleeves pushed up to the elbow to exhibit
their compact flexors and extensors. Some had rolled their flannel up to
the shoulder, above the bulging muscles of the upper arm. They wore aprons
tied about the neck, like the bibs of our childhood,--or about the waist,
like the coquettish articles which young housewives affect. But there was