He spoke to Wayne last of all and drew him into a group of half a dozen saying, “Young friends, this is an old schoolmate of mine; won’t you make room for us?” With paper napkins on their knees he and Wayne were soon taunting each other with some of their old-time adventures, while the listeners beamed their delight at the intimate quality of the colloquy. Wayne told several stories about Paddock that were listened to eagerly by the little circle. The girls giggled; the young men laughed aloud. Paddock threw in a word here and there to elicit some new tale. Wayne’s success with his auditors stimulated him; the circle widened, and he talked of some of his experiences in the coal mines during the year of his probation, using colloquial phrases of the men underground as he had learned them in the bituminous mines. The simple frocks of the girls; their red, labour-scarred hands; these young men in their cheap, ready-made clothing; the brassy jewelry worn by several of them, touched both his humour and his pity. But he was aware, too, that he enjoyed their attention. In his sister’s house a few nights before, among people of his own order, no such experience as this would have been possible. He rose presently at the climax of an anecdote that had pleased his hearers particularly. “Don’t hurry away; I want to show you what we have here,” said Paddock. “About all I say for it is that it is clean--most of the time. In there is the men’s reading-room; a table for writing, too. Pipes, you notice, are not discouraged.” They looked in where a dozen men of all ages sat about small tables reading newspapers and periodicals. “Some of these old fellows are as regular as British Museum readers. Every man who comes here can have a cup of coffee and a sandwich in the evening for the asking; the cooking class downstairs looks after that. I’m putting on a lot of foreign newspapers. A few books over there--just a beginning. Anybody can take a book home by writing his name on a card. Bring them back? Oh, well, what if they don’t? Down below is the kitchen--mind the step!--the building was in bad shape when I got hold of it; I’ll get after that stairway to-morrow. Here’s the cooking school; about twenty girls are taught by a domestic science teacher regularly. A part of the class volunteered to provide the refreshments to-night. That coffee wasn’t bad, was it?” At the foot of the dark stairway they emerged into a low basement whose cleanliness and order were at once apparent even to the lay sense. “Don’t let me bore you. I just want you to get a bird’s-eye view. This plant isn’t complete yet--we have only the essential requirements; the frills will come later. These are more advanced pupils; younger girls we get in the afternoons. Rather remarkable young woman over there, wiping dishes. Came out last Sunday and volunteered to help in her leisure. I must speak to those girls a minute.”