The men would talk about it in awe-stricken whispers.  Not more than one in ten had ever really tried it; the other nine had contented themselves with hearsay evidence and a peep through the door.  There were some things worse than even starving to death.  They would ask Jurgis if he had worked there yet, and if he meant to; and Jurgis would debate the matter with himself.  As poor as they were, and making all the sacrifices that they were, would he dare to refuse any sort of work that was offered to him, be it as horrible as ever it could?  Would he dare to go home and eat bread that had been earned by Ona, weak and complaining as she was, knowing that he had been given a chance, and had not had the nerve to take it?—­And yet he might argue that way with himself all day, and one glimpse into the fertilizer works would send him away again shuddering.  He was a man, and he would do his duty; he went and made application—­but surely he was not also required to hope for success!

The fertilizer works of Durham’s lay away from the rest of the plant.  Few visitors ever saw them, and the few who did would come out looking like Dante, of whom the peasants declared that he had been into hell.  To this part of the yards came all the “tankage” and the waste products of all sorts; here they dried out the bones,—­and in suffocating cellars where the daylight never came you might see men and women and children bending over whirling machines and sawing bits of bone into all sorts of shapes, breathing their lungs full of the fine dust, and doomed to die, every one of them, within a certain definite time.  Here they made the blood into albumen, and made other foul-smelling things into things still more foul-smelling.  In the corridors and caverns where it was done you might lose yourself as in the great caves of Kentucky.  In the dust and the steam the electric lights would shine like far-off twinkling stars—­red and blue-green and purple stars, according to the color of the mist and the brew from which it came.  For the odors of these ghastly charnel houses there may be words in Lithuanian, but there are none in English.  The person entering would have to summon his courage as for a cold-water plunge.  He would go in like a man swimming under water; he would put his handkerchief over his face, and begin to cough and choke; and then, if he were still obstinate, he would find his head beginning to ring, and the veins in his forehead to throb, until finally he would be assailed by an overpowering blast of ammonia fumes, and would turn and run for his life, and come out half-dazed.

On top of this were the rooms where they dried the “tankage,” the mass of brown stringy stuff that was left after the waste portions of the carcasses had had the lard and tallow dried out of them.  This dried material they would then grind to a fine powder, and after they had mixed it up well with a mysterious but inoffensive brown rock which they brought in and ground up by the hundreds of carloads for that