purpose, the substance was ready to be put into bags and sent out to the world as any one of a hundred different brands of standard bone phosphate.  And then the farmer in Maine or California or Texas would buy this, at say twenty-five dollars a ton, and plant it with his corn; and for several days after the operation the fields would have a strong odor, and the farmer and his wagon and the very horses that had hauled it would all have it too.  In Packingtown the fertilizer is pure, instead of being a flavoring, and instead of a ton or so spread out on several acres under the open sky, there are hundreds and thousands of tons of it in one building, heaped here and there in haystack piles, covering the floor several inches deep, and filling the air with a choking dust that becomes a blinding sandstorm when the wind stirs.

It was to this building that Jurgis came daily, as if dragged by an unseen hand.  The month of May was an exceptionally cool one, and his secret prayers were granted; but early in June there came a record-breaking hot spell, and after that there were men wanted in the fertilizer mill.

The boss of the grinding room had come to know Jurgis by this time, and had marked him for a likely man; and so when he came to the door about two o’clock this breathless hot day, he felt a sudden spasm of pain shoot through him—­the boss beckoned to him!  In ten minutes more Jurgis had pulled off his coat and overshirt, and set his teeth together and gone to work.  Here was one more difficulty for him to meet and conquer!

His labor took him about one minute to learn.  Before him was one of the vents of the mill in which the fertilizer was being ground—­rushing forth in a great brown river, with a spray of the finest dust flung forth in clouds.  Jurgis was given a shovel, and along with half a dozen others it was his task to shovel this fertilizer into carts.  That others were at work he knew by the sound, and by the fact that he sometimes collided with them; otherwise they might as well not have been there, for in the blinding dust storm a man could not see six feet in front of his face.  When he had filled one cart he had to grope around him until another came, and if there was none on hand he continued to grope till one arrived.  In five minutes he was, of course, a mass of fertilizer from head to feet; they gave him a sponge to tie over his mouth, so that he could breathe, but the sponge did not prevent his lips and eyelids from caking up with it and his ears from filling solid.  He looked like a brown ghost at twilight—­from hair to shoes he became the color of the building and of everything in it, and for that matter a hundred yards outside it.  The building had to be left open, and when the wind blew Durham and Company lost a great deal of fertilizer.