“That’s Mr. Adams,” Barry continued. “He ain’t the head boss, but he’s next to the head. He’s an awful nice man. He was a workingman himself once. I’ve heard that he was a carpenter in the factory when the old man was alive, and that he was promoted to be next to the head boss. He knows what work is, and he’s awful nice to the men, but you don’t never want to let him catch you idle.” We had just finished stacking the load and had started again for the warehouse, when we caught sight of a neatly dressed man of medium height who was crossing a temporary bridge, which joined the platform by the main building over the railway-track to the one where we were at work. I felt the truck shoot forward at a speed which I had to follow almost at a run. In the dark passage of the warehouse Barry was soon talking again, and again in an awed undertone. “That was the head boss,” he said, impressively. “That was Mr. Young himself.” And he looked surprised that I did not stagger under the announcement, although, to do him justice, I did feel a good deal as the new boy might, brought unexpectedly for the first time into the presence of the head master. “He ain’t never worked a day in his life,” Barry was continuing. “Only he’s a terrible fine superintendent. You bet he gets big wages. They say he can see when he ain’t looking, and he comes down like a thousand of brick on any man who shirks his work. He ain’t never worked himself, and so he don’t know what it is.” The noon-whistle sounded soon after this, to my great relief, for a fast of eighteen hours was telling on me. Barry left the truck where it stood, and broke into a run. I followed him. In a moment the whole building and the outer platforms were echoing to the tread of running feet. When I reached the factory yard I found crowds of men streaming from every door and pressing swiftly through the gate. A stranger to the scene might at first sight have supposed the building to be on fire and that the men were escaping, but a second glance would have corrected the idea. There was no excitement in their mood; nor was there any playfulness; but with set, serious faces they were running for the careful economy of time. Barry had explained to me that, in order to quit the day’s work at half-past five, the hands take but half an hour for their mid-day meal, and that I must, therefore, be careful to be within the factory gates by half-past twelve. [Illustration: CROWDS OF MEN STREAMING FROM EVERY DOOR AND PRESSING SWIFTLY THROUGH THE GATE.] Interesting as was the scene, I had no time to note it carefully, for I had caught the contagion of feverish hurry, and with the greater need on my part, for in that half hour I must get food if I was to return to work.