The boots thrown on his right are not worth repair. But even they are worth something. They go to another room where women cut out of each boot two round pieces of the leather over ankle bone on each side. The women do this all day. Everybody here does some one special thing all day. These discs of leather are passed on to another sub-workshop, full of women, who lay each disc on a board, stick a kind of awl through its middle, put a very sharp knife to its edge, and then make it revolve round the awl in such a way that the knife cuts an excellent bootlace—a quite straight one, too, strange to see—out of the circle of leather, paring it down and down till nothing of it is left. Nothing Wasted. Of what remains of the boot itself the softer parts are combined with other ingredients to form a useful manure. The more intractable and less succulent heel is carried to the furnace room where the power needed for the machinery is generated. A boot heel has been found to make excellent fuel, a large furnace not being particular about its food. Thus no part, even of the most decrepit boots, goes to waste. It is like the drowned man in the _Tempest_— Nothing of it that doth fade, But all doth suffer a sea change Into something rich and strange. From the judgment chamber those boots which are not despaired of pass to a place where another body of experts assess the amount of repair required by each boot. To each boot one of them attaches the kind and quantity of leather required to mend it—perhaps a new sole, or a sole and a heel, or what not. The boot, together with this allowance of material, is then placed in a pigeon hole, one out of a great case of pigeon holes. From this it is taken, in its turn, by another shoemaker—a soldier in khaki, like all the other men here—who goes to work on it. Division of Labour. But he does not do the whole job. One man pares down the new sole or heel to the dimensions of the particular boot in hand. Another man, or woman, holds the boot and the sole in contact with a machine which sews on the sole in about the time in which you could sprint 100 yards. Another person and another machine drive in nails all round the sole almost as fast as you could draw your finger along the line of nail-heads that they trace. It would be tedious to go through all the other stages of repair. But one may hark back to mention one which was forgotten in its place. Just after leaving the seat of judgment where, as it were, the sheep were separated from the goats, each boot to be mended was handed over to an expert who put it on a last and simply banged it back, with a heavy hammer, into the original shape of a new boot.