Atkins, he stops scrabblin' after the cards and starts around the room. And say, would you believe it, on all the tables and mantelpieces was a lot of those toy animals, such as they sell durin' the holidays. There was lions and tigers and elephants, little and big, and every last one of 'em has its head balanced so it'll move up and down when you touch it. Atkins' job was to go from one to the other and set 'em bobbin'. Them on the mantels wa'n't more'n a few inches long; but on the floor, hid behind chairs, was some that was life size. One was a tiger, made out of a real skin, and when his head goes his jaws open and shut, and his tail lashes from side to side, as natural as life. Say, it was weird to watch that collection, all noddin' away together--almost gave you the willies! "Are they all going?" says Bobby. "Yes, sir," says Atkins, standin' attention. "What do you think, eh?" says Bobbie, half shuttin' his pop eyes and starin' at me, real foxy. "Great scheme!" says I. "Didn't know you had a private zoo up here. But say, I brought along someone that wants to have a little chin with you." With that I hauls the Rev. Sam to the front and gives him the nudge to fire away. And say, he's all primed! He begins by givin' Bobbie a word picture of the Rankin glass works at night, when the helpers are carryin' the trays from the hot room, where the blowers work three-hour shifts, with the mercury at one hundred and twenty, to the coolin' room, where it's like a cellar. He tells him how many helpers there are, how many hours they work a day, and what they get for it. It didn't make me yearn for a job. "And here," says the Rev. Mr. Hooker, pullin' the Dummy up by the sleeve, "is what happens. This boy went to work in your glass factory when he was thirteen. He was red cheeked, clear eyed, then, and he had a normal brain. He held his job six years. Then he was discharged. Why? Because he wasn't of any more use. He was all in, the juice sapped out of him, as dry as a last year's cornhusk. Look at him! Any doubt about his being used up? And what happened to him is happening to thousands of other boys. So I have come here to ask you, Mr. Rankin, if you are proud of turning out such products? Aren't you ready to stop hiring thirteen-year-old boys for your works?" Say, it was straight from the shoulder, that talk,--no flourishes, no fine words! And what do you guess Bobby Brut has to say? Not a blamed thing! I doubt if he heard more'n half of it, anyway; for he's got his eyes set on that pasty face of Dummy Kronacher, and is followin' his motions.