This was the first time in his life that he had ever really worked, it
seemed to Jurgis; it was the first time that he had ever had anything
to do which took all he had in him. Jurgis had stood with the rest up in
the gallery and watched the men on the killing beds, marveling at their
speed and power as if they had been wonderful machines; it somehow never
occurred to one to think of the flesh-and-blood side of it--that is, not
until he actually got down into the pit and took off his coat. Then he
saw things in a different light, he got at the inside of them. The pace
they set here, it was one that called for every faculty of a man--from
the instant the first steer fell till the sounding of the noon whistle,
and again from half-past twelve till heaven only knew what hour in the
late afternoon or evening, there was never one instant's rest for a man,
for his hand or his eye or his brain. Jurgis saw how they managed it;
there were portions of the work which determined the pace of the rest,
and for these they had picked men whom they paid high wages, and whom
they changed frequently. You might easily pick out these pacemakers,
for they worked under the eye of the bosses, and they worked like men
possessed. This was called "speeding up the gang," and if any man could
not keep up with the pace, there were hundreds outside begging to try.

Yet Jurgis did not mind it; he rather enjoyed it. It saved him the
necessity of flinging his arms about and fidgeting as he did in most
work. He would laugh to himself as he ran down the line, darting a
glance now and then at the man ahead of him. It was not the pleasantest
work one could think of, but it was necessary work; and what more had
a man the right to ask than a chance to do something useful, and to get
good pay for doing it?

So Jurgis thought, and so he spoke, in his bold, free way; very much to
his surprise, he found that it had a tendency to get him into trouble.