perfect machine. At the end of three months he was running two looms, and,
later, three and four.

At the end of his second year at the looms he was turning out more yards
than any other weaver, and more than twice as much as some of the less
skilful ones. And at home things began to prosper as he approached the
full stature of his earning power. Not, however, that his increased
earnings were in excess of need. The children were growing up. They ate
more. And they were going to school, and school-books cost money. And
somehow, the faster he worked, the faster climbed the prices of things.
Even the rent went up, though the house had fallen from bad to worse
disrepair.

He had grown taller; but with his increased height he seemed leaner than
ever. Also, he was more nervous. With the nervousness increased his
peevishness and irritability. The children had learned by many bitter
lessons to fight shy of him. His mother respected him for his earning
power, but somehow her respect was tinctured with fear.

There was no joyousness in life for him. The procession of the days he
never saw. The nights he slept away in twitching unconsciousness. The
rest of the time he worked, and his consciousness was machine
consciousness. Outside this his mind was a blank. He had no ideals, and
but one illusion; namely, that he drank excellent coffee. He was a work-
beast. He had no mental life whatever; yet deep down in the crypts of his
mind, unknown to him, were being weighed and sifted every hour of his toil,
every movement of his hands, every twitch of his muscles, and preparations
were making for a future course of action that would amaze him and all his
little world.