The proper loading of the cars is a work requiring great skill and ingenuity on Crist’s part; for the men it is the mere muscular carrying out of his directions. Under Crist’s guidance the superficial area of a car is made to hold an incredible amount. By long practice he has learned the greatest possible economy of space, in the nice adjustments of varying bulks, so that each load is a maximum, in point of number, of complete machines. [Illustration: LOADING THE BOX-CARS UNDER CRIST’S GUIDANCE.] There was like shrewdness, I thought, in his handling of the men. After his first orders to me I came almost not at all under his direct control through the few days in which I worked in his department. But I had many opportunities then and later, too, of observing him. A tall, old, lithe Norwegian, with a certain awkward, lanky efficiency of movement, he had the mild manner and the soft, low speech of the hard-of-hearing. He never blustered, certainly, and apparently he never swore, but the men under him worked without hurry and without intervals in a way which told superbly in the total work accomplished. A gang of six or eight laborers under his direction was just beginning the loading of an empty box-car when I was taken on. They were stalwart, hardy workmen for the most part, their faces aglow in the cold, their muscular bodies warmly clothed, and the folded rims of their heavy woollen caps drawn down to protect their ears. Over their work-stained overalls some of them wore thick leather aprons which were darkened and polished by wear to the appearance of well-seasoned razor-strops, and on their hands they all wore stout gloves or mittens, which, through long use, had reached a perfect flexibility and fitness to their work. “John,” said Crist, addressing one of the gang, a short, rather slender Irishman, with a smooth-shaven, sallow face, “John, you take this man and fetch down the dry tongues from the paint-shop. There’s the wagon-truck,” and he pointed to a vehicle whose heavy box, open at both ends, and rising at the sides to a height of three feet, was supported on two small iron wheels, while an iron leg under the heavier end kept the bottom of the truck horizontal. “Yes, sir,” came instantly from John, as he stepped alertly from among the men and joined me, his small, gray eyes looking inquisitively into mine and showing in their sudden light the pleasure which he felt in being thus singled out for special work and put in charge of a new hand. “Come this way,” he said to me. “Me and you is partners. What’s your name? My name’s John, John Barry. Some calls me Jake, but my name’s John,” he concluded, with an emphasis which made it clear that he had a rooted objection to “Jake.”