All the time I saw him looking at two or three of our turners who didn’t seem to be very busy. Anyhow, they had time to stand off from their lathes and talk about taxes, and William Jennings Bryan, and rabbit-dogs, and fishing, and how mean Clem Roberts’s wife was to him. Mark kind of frowned and squinted up his little eyes and fidgeted around. “Makes me mad,” says he. “Here we’re payin’ them men for a day’s work, and what do we git? We git just as much work as they feel like doin’. I’ll bet them old coots wastes a quarter of a day, and don’t kill themselves the rest of the time. We ought to be gittin’ about twice as much done as we do—and that would lower costs a heap.” “What you goin’ to do about it?” says I. “I been thinkin’,” says he. “Better think some more,” says I; “it’s easy.” “I’m a-goin’ to, and I’m a-goin’ to do it n-now. You tell Tallow and Binney to come up to the office and we’ll have a council of war.” I got the fellows and we all went into the office that Mark had got fixed up pretty slick with an old table and some kitchen chairs. It looked real business-like with bookkeeping books and such like scattered around. “Well,” says he, “who’s got any n-n-notion of how to make them grocery-store p-politicans work harder?” “Pay ’em more,” says I. “That won’t do it,” says he. “I’d be willin’ to p-pay more if they’d earn it. But they don’t earn fair what they git. They got an idee we’re just kids and they kin do about the way they w-want to.” “Tell ’em,” says Binney, “that we won’t pay ’em only for what they do.” Mark looked at him a minute. “Say, Binney,” says he, “I guess you’re promoted. That’s a notion. I knew there was somethin’. Piece-work is what they call it. Pay ’em so much for every article they make. So much for a hunderd chair-s-s-spindles, so much for d-drumsticks, so much for d-d-dumb-bells and tenpins.” “They’ll quit,” says Tallow. “Maybe,” says Mark, “but we got to do somethin’. Let’s give it a try.” We waited till noon and the men was all sitting around eating their lunches. Mark and us went up to them, and Mark says: “Beginnin’ to-morrow, we’re a-goin’ to put this mill on a piece-work basis.” “Eh?” says old Charlie Cobb. “Piece-work. I got the rates f-f-figgered out. I know how much a turner ought to do in a day, and I based my rates on that. Any man that works l-like he ought to will make what he’s m-makin’ to-day, and more, and a f-f-feller that really wants to dig in can make a heap more. I don’t care if every one of you makes ten dollars a day.” “We won’t work no piece-work,” says Charlie. “Why?” “It’s jest gougin’ us. We’ll have to dum’ near kill ourselves, and then we won’t make wages.” “Look here,” says Mark, “you’re turnin’ spindles, Charlie. How many d’you f-f-figger you kin turn in a day without b-bustin’? You’re a first-class turner.” Charlie thought a minute and then told him. Maybe he bragged a little, because Charlie liked to tell folks what a dickens of a man he was.