The most popular socials, however, were box socials, and it was to one of these I decided to go with two girls boarding in the house.  Each of us packed a box with lunch as good as we could afford—­eggs, sandwiches, cakes, pickles, oranges—­and arrived with these, we proceeded to the vestry-room, where we found an improvised auctioneer’s table and a pile of boxes like our own, which were marked and presently put up for sale.  The youths of the party bid cautiously or recklessly, according as their inward conviction told them that the box was packed by friend or foe.

My box, which, like the rest, had supper for two, was bid in by a tall, nice-looking mill hand, and we installed ourselves in a corner to eat and talk.  He was full of reminiscence and had had a checkered career.  His first experience had been at night work in a paper mill.  He worked eleven hours a night one week, thirteen hours a night the next week, in and out of doors, drenched to the skin.  He had lost twenty-five pounds in less than a year, and his face was a mere mask drawn over the irregular bones of the skull.

“I always like whatever I am doing,” he responded at my protestation of sympathy.  “I think that’s the only way to be.  I never had much appetite at night.  They packed me an elegant pail, but somehow all cold food didn’t relish much.  I never did like a pail....  How would you like to take a dead man’s place?” he asked, looking at me grimly.

I begged him to explain.

“One of my best friends,” he began, “was working alongside of me, and I guess he got dizzy or something, for he leaned up against the big belt that ran all the machinery and he was lifted right up in the air and tore to pieces before he ever knew what struck him.  The boss came in and seen it, and the second question he asked, he says, ’Say, is the machinery running all right?’ It wasn’t ten minutes before there was another man in there doing the dead man’s work.”

I began to undo the lunch-box, feeling very little inclined to eat.  We divided the contents, and my friend, seeing perhaps that I was depressed, told me about the “shows” he had been to in his wanderings.

“Now, I don’t care as much for comedy as some folks,” he explained.  “I like ‘Puddin’ Head Wilson’ first rate, but the finest thing I ever seen was two of Shakespeare’s:  ‘The Merchant of Venice’ and ‘Julius Caesar.’  If you ever get a chance I advise you to go and hear them; they’re great.”

I responded cordially, and when we had exhausted Shakespeare I asked him how he liked Perry people.

“Oh, first rate,” he said.  “I’ve been here only a month, but I think there’s too much formality.  It seems to me that when you work alongside of a girl day after day you might speak to her without an introduction, but they won’t let you here.  I never seen such a formal place.”

I said very little.  The boy talked on of his life and experiences.  His English was good except for certain grammatical errors.  His words were well chosen.  There was between him and the fortunate boys of a superior class only a few years of training.