When thus laid up, Mr. Goodman was wont to send for his superintendent to inquire how business was getting on; and it was upon one of these occasions that he first heard of Bob. Although not a person given to enthusiasm, not even when expressing himself on the subject of money――money, which lay like a little gold worm in the core of his heart――he became so excited when he was told about the model child, who never smiled, who never sulked, who never asked for higher wages, that the foreman felt a little alarm; for he had never seen his employer’s eyes glisten as they did now, and even the pain in his left knee did not prevent Mr. Goodman from rising up out of the easy-chair to give vent to his emotion. “Believe me,” he exclaimed, “this child is the beginning of a new race of children. Believe me, when our factories are filled by workers like him, then we’ll have no more strikes; strikes will be extinguished for ever!” Here Mr. Goodman sank down again in the chair, then, pulling out a silk handkerchief, wiped his forehead. But presently his brow contracted. “There is some talk,” he continued, “of introducing a bill in the legislature to exclude all children from factories under ten years of age. Would such a bill exclude my model boy?” “I can’t say whether it would,” replied the manager. “Bob may be ten, or a little under, or a little over. I don’t think he’ll change much from what he is, not if he lives fifty years. His face looks just like something that has been hammered into a certain shape that it can’t get out of.” “And they talk, too, of limiting the hours of work to ten per day for children between ten and sixteen years,” went on Mr. Goodman, still frowning; “and, what’s more, the bill requires three months’ day-schooling or six months’ night-schooling. I declare, if this bill becomes a law, I’ll retire from business. The public has no right to interfere with my employment of labor. It is sheer tyranny.” “Well, it would throw labor considerably out of gear,” remarked the superintendent; “for there are a hundred thousand children employed in the shops and factories of this city and suburbs.” “But, no; the bill sha’n’t pass!” exclaimed Mr. Goodman, thumping his fist on the table. “Why, what’s the use of a lobby, if such a bill can go through?” Here the foreman smiled, whereupon his employer gave a responsive smile; then pulling the bell, “Now,” said the latter, “let us drink the model boy’s health.” In a few minutes there appeared a decanter of sherry. “Here’s to Flywheel Bob!” cried Mr. Goodman, holding up his glass. “To Flywheel Bob!” repeated the other; and they both tossed off the wine.