"All right, all right, I'll do it," I said, and went away. I was never in my life so much impressed with the necessity of _doing it_. His language and gesture had been profoundly expressive--of what? I tried to concentrate on the phrases that seeped through emotion and Serbian into English. "Wheelbarrow"--hang on to that; "mud"--that's easy: a wheelbarrow of mud. Good! I got it at the other end of the mill--opposite Number 4. "Hey! don't use that shovel for mud!" said the second-helper on Number 4. So I didn't. I wheeled back to the gallery behind Seven, and found Nick coming out at me. When he saw that hard-won mud of mine, I thought he was going to snap the cords in his throat. "Goddam it!" he said, when articulation returned, "I tell you, get wheelbarrow dolomite, and half-wheelbarrow clay, and pail of water, and look what you bring, goddam it!" So that was it--he probably said pail of water with his feet. "Oh, all right," I said, smiling like a skull; "I thought you said mud. I'll get it, I'll get it." This is amusing enough on the first day; you can go off and laugh in a superior way to yourself about the queer words the foreigners use. But after seven days of it, fourteen hours each, it gets under the skin, it burns along the nerves, as the furnace heat burns along the arms when you make back-wall. It suddenly occurred to me one day, after someone had bawled me out picturesquely for not knowing where something was that I had never heard of, that this was what every immigrant Hunky endured; it was a matter of language largely, of understanding, of knowing the names of things, the uses of things, the language of the boss. Here was this Serbian second-helper bossing his third-helper largely in an unknown tongue, and the latter getting the full emotional experience of the immigrant. I thought of Bill, the pit boss, telling a Hunky to do a clean-up job for him; and when the Hunky said, "What?" he turned to me and said: "Lord! but these Hunkies are dumb." Most of the false starts, waste motion, misunderstandings, fights, burnings, accidents, nerve-wrack, and desperation of soul would fall away if there were understanding--a common language, of mind as well as tongue. But then, I thought, all this may be because I'm oversensitive. I had this qualm till one day I met Jack. He was an old regular-army sergeant, a man about thirty. He had come back from fixing a bad spout. They had sledged it out--sledged through the steel that had crept into the dolomite and closed the tap-hole. "Do you ever feel low?" he said, sitting down on the back of a shovel. "Every once'n while I feel like telling 'em to take their job and go to hell with it; you strain your guts out, and then they swear at you." "I sometimes feel like a worm," I said, "with no right to be living any way, or so mad I want to lick the bosses and the president."