back ached intolerably. All his bones ached. He ached everywhere. And in
his head began the shrieking, pounding, crashing, roaring of a million
looms. All space was filled with flying shuttles. They darted in and out,
intricately, amongst the stars. He worked a thousand looms himself, and
ever they speeded up, faster and faster, and his brain unwound, faster and
faster, and became the thread that fed the thousand flying shuttles.

He did not go to work next morning. He was too busy weaving colossally on
the thousand looms that ran inside his head. His mother went to work, but
first she sent for the doctor. It was a severe attack of la grippe, he
said. Jennie served as nurse and carried out his instructions.

It was a very severe attack, and it was a week before Johnny dressed and
tottered feebly across the floor. Another week, the doctor said, and he
would be fit to return to work. The foreman of the loom room visited him
on Sunday afternoon, the first day of his convalescence. The best weaver
in the room, the foreman told his mother. His job would be held for him.
He could come back to work a week from Monday.

"Why don't you thank 'im, Johnny?" his mother asked anxiously.

"He's ben that sick he ain't himself yet," she explained apologetically to
the visitor.

Johnny sat hunched up and gazing steadfastly at the floor. He sat in the
same position long after the foreman had gone. It was warm outdoors, and
he sat on the stoop in the afternoon. Sometimes his lips moved. He seemed
lost in endless calculations.

Next morning, after the day grew warm, he took his seat on the stoop. He