“Steady!  Steady!” warned good-natured Rollins.  “You’ll drop a hand under that knife.”

The words had just reached Arthur when he gave a sharp cry.  With a cut as clean as the edge that made it, off came the little finger of his left hand, and he was staring at it as it lay upon the bed of the planer, twitching, seeming to breathe as its blood pulsed out, while the blood spurted from his maimed hand.  In an instant Lorry Tague had the machine still.

“A bucket of clean water,” he yelled to the man at the next planer.

He grabbed dazed Arthur’s hand, and pressed hard with his powerful thumb and forefinger upon the edges of the wound.

“A doctor!” he shouted at the men crowding round.

Arthur did not realize what had happened until he found himself forced to his knees, his hand submerged in the ice-cold water, Lorry still holding shut the severed veins and arteries.

“Another bucket of water, you, Bill,” cried Lorry.

When it came he had Bill Johnstone throw the severed finger into it.  Bud Rollins, who had jumped through the window into the street in a dash for a physician, saw Doctor Schulze’s buggy just turning out of High Street.  He gave chase, had Schulze beside Arthur within two minutes.  More water, both hot and cold, was brought, and a cleared work bench; with swift, sure fingers the doctor cleaned the stump, cleaned the severed finger, joined and sewed them, bandaged the hand.

“Now, I’ll take you home,” he said.  “I guess you’ve distinguished yourself enough for the day.”

Arthur followed him, silent and meek as a humbled dog.  As they were driving along Schulze misread a mournful look which Arthur cast at his bandaged hand.  “It’s nothing—­nothing at all,” he said gruffly.  “In a week or less you could be back at work.”  The accompanying sardonic grin said plain as print, “But this dainty dandy is done with work.”

Weak and done though Arthur was, some blood came into his pale face and he bit his lip with anger.

Schulze saw these signs.

“Several men are killed every year in those works—­and not through their carelessness, either,” he went on in a milder, friendlier tone.  “And forty or fifty are maimed—­not like that little pin scratch of yours, my dear Mr. Ranger, but hands lost, legs lost—­accidents that make cripples for life.  That means tragedy—­not the wolf at the door, but with his snout right in the platter.”

“I’ve seen that,” said Arthur.  “But I never thought much about it—­until now.”

“Naturally,” commented Schulze, with sarcasm.  Then he added philosophically, “And it’s just as well not to bother about it.  Mankind found this world a hell, and is trying to make it over into a heaven.  And a hell it still is, even more of a hell than at first, and it’ll be still more of a hell—­for these machines and these slave-driving capitalists with their luxury-crazy families are worse than wars and aristocrats.