To the right, elevated under the roof, stood the range of chests—huge, round vessels, like little gasometers, into which the pulp descended from Ned Dingle when he had perfected it. There were eight of these fat monsters ranged in a row, and from them flowed the material to the vats as it was needed. The vats stood on the floor of the chamber—large, wide-mouthed troughs heated by steam from within. For the pulp is warm for the vatman, and some of the finest and most enduring papers demand such a high temperature that an operative’s hands are blistered and boiled at his work. Beside each vat is a hand-box of cold water, to dip and refresh the vatman’s fingers when the need arises. Within the vat revolves the “hog,” a toothed roller, which keeps the heavy pulp mixed and moving, and prevents any settlement of the fibre. On stages before the breasts of the vats stood the paper makers, and the wooden bands against which they leaned were polished with the friction of their aprons. Their tools were two—the mould—a flat, rectangular tray, or sieve, of copper wire as fine as gauze, with the water-mark let in upon it to tell the story of the future paper, and the deckle—a light wood and metal frame of four sides which fitted exactly over the mould and lifted an edge all round it to hold the pulp. The moulds varied from the size of two open sheets of notepaper, to great squares of “double elephant,” the noblest stuff the Mill produced. Moulds for these immense pieces once immersed in the pulp, called for great physical power to draw them cleanly and steadily back from the clinging fluid with their weight of material spread upon them. Kellock was making “double elephant” in a mighty mould. With his thumbs firmly set on the deckle edge, he lowered the tray into the snow-white pulp, sloping it towards him as he did so. He put it in, sank it flat under the pulp and drew it out again with one beautiful, rhythmic movement. The pulp sucked hard at the great mould, to drag it to the depths, but the man’s strength brought it steadily forth; and then he made his “stroke”—a complicated gesture, which levelled and settled the pulp on the mould and let the liquid escape through the gauze. Kellock gave a little jog to the right and to the left and ended with an indescribable, subtle, quivering movement which completed the task. It was the work of two seconds, and in his case a beautiful accomplishment full of grace and charm. He stood easily and firmly while every muscle of breast and arm, back and loins played its appointed part in the “stroke.”