He worked mechanically. When a small bobbin ran out, he used his left hand
for a brake, stopping the large bobbin and at the same time, with thumb and
forefinger, catching the flying end of twine. Also, at the same time, with
his right hand, he caught up the loose twine-end of a small bobbin. These
various acts with both hands were performed simultaneously and swiftly.
Then there would come a flash of his hands as he looped the weaver's knot
and released the bobbin. There was nothing difficult about weaver's knots.
He once boasted he could tie them in his sleep. And for that matter, he
sometimes did, toiling centuries long in a single night at tying an endless
succession of weaver's knots.

Some of the boys shirked, wasting time and machinery by not replacing the
small bobbins when they ran out. And there was an overseer to prevent
this. He caught Johnny's neighbour at the trick, and boxed his ears.

"Look at Johnny there--why ain't you like him?" the overseer wrathfully
demanded.

Johnny's bobbins were running full blast, but he did not thrill at the
indirect praise. There had been a time . . . but that was long ago, very
long ago. His apathetic face was expressionless as he listened to himself
being held up as a shining example. He was the perfect worker. He knew
that. He had been told so, often. It was a commonplace, and besides it
didn't seem to mean anything to him any more. From the perfect worker he
had evolved into the perfect machine. When his work went wrong, it was
with him as with the machine, due to faulty material. It would have been
as possible for a perfect nail-die to cut imperfect nails as for him to
make a mistake.