But as he walked down the aisle, dodging from time to time men or trucks that regarded him not at all, but depended on him to clear the way and to look out for himself, he was able to perceive something of the miraculous orderliness and system of it.  He was given a hint of the plan—­how a certain process would start—­a bit of rough metal; how it would undergo its first process and move on by gradual steps from one machine to the next, to the next, in orderly, systematic way.  No time was lost in carrying a thing hither and thither.  When one man was through with it, the next man was at that exact point, to take it and contribute his bit to its transformation. ...  Something very like a thrill of pride passed over Bonbright.  He was a part of this marvel. ...

Through this room they walked—­the room would have sufficed in extent for a good-sized farm—­and into another, not smaller, and into another and another.  His destination, Shop One, was smaller, but huge enough.  The boy led Bonbright to a short, fat man. in unbelievably grimy overalls and black, visored cap.

“Mr. Maguire,” he shouted, “here’s a man and a note from the boss.”  Then he scurried away.

Maguire looked at the note first, and shoved it into his pocket; then he squinted at Bonbright—­at his face first; then, with a quizzical glint, at his clothes.  Bonbright flushed.  For the first time in his life he was ashamed of his clothes, and for a reason that causes few men to be ashamed of their clothes.  He wished they were of cheaper cloth, of less expensive tailoring.  He wished, most of all, that the bright new overalls in the bundle under his arm were concealing them from view.

“You’re a hell of a looking machinist,” said Maguire.

Bonbright felt it to be a remarkably true saying.

“The boss takes this for a darn kindergarten,” Maguire complained.  “Ever run a lathe or a shaper or a planer?”

“No.”

“He said to stick you on a lathe. ...  Huh!  What’s he know about it?...  How’s he expect this room to make a showing if it’s goin’ to be charged with guys like you that hain’t nothin’ but an expense?”

Bonbright got the idea back of that.  Maguire was personally interested in results; Maguire wanted his room to beat other rooms in the weekly reports; Maguire was working for something more than wages—­he was playing the game of manufacturing to win.

“You go on a planer,” Maguire snapped, “and Gawd help you if you spoil more castings than I figger you ought to. ...  The boys here’ll make it hot for you if you pull down their average.”

So the boys were interested, too.  The thing extended downward from the bosses!

“Goin’ to work in them clothes?” asked Maguire, with a grin.

“Overalls,” said Bonbright, tapping his parcel.

Maguire went to his desk and took a key from a box.  “I’ll show you your locker,” he said; and presently Bonbright, minus his coat, was incased in the uniform of a laborer.  Spick and span and new it was, and gave him a singularly uncomfortable feeling because of this fact.  He wanted it grimed and daubed like the overalls of the men he saw about him.  A boyish impulse to smear it moved him—­but he was ashamed to do it openly.