s crowding about the great central machine house.

They crossed the light footbridge over the "cut in" from the river, and
moved along down the main highway of the northern shore.

Both were pre-occupied. The engineer was listening to the note of his
beloved machinery. Bat was concerned with any and every movement going
on within the range of his vision. They walked briskly, the lean
engineer setting a pace that kept the other stumping hurriedly beside
him.

Abreast of the mill they approached a new-looking, long, low building.
It was single storied and lumber built, with a succession of many
windows down its length. The hour was noon. And men were hurrying
towards its entrance from every direction.

Bat watched interestedly.

"They seem mighty keen for their new playground," he said at last, with
a quick nod in the direction of the recreation house.

The engineer came out of his dream. His mournful eyes turned in the
direction indicated and devoured the scene. Then he glanced down at the
squat figure stumping beside him.

"Guess that's so. But not the way you figgered when you got that fool
notion of handing 'em a playhouse," he said roughly. "If you pass a hog
a feather bed, it's a sure thing he'll work out the best way to muss it
quick."

"How? I don't get you?"

There was no humour in Bat's eyes now.

"They call it a 'Chapel'," Skert said dryly. "They've surely got
preachers, but they don't talk religion. Maybe that's sort of new to
you, here. It isn't across the water where I come from. Guess you think
those boys are racing out to get a game of checkers, or billiards, or
cards, or some other fool play you reckoned to hand 'em to make 'em feel
good." He shook his head. "They're not. They've turned their 'Chapel'
into a sort of parliament. Every dinner hour there's a feller, different
fellers most all the time, gets up and hands 'em out an address. It's
short, but red hot. The afternoon shift in the mill is given up to
brightening up their fool brains on it. And when evening comes along,
and they've their bellies full of supper and beer, they get along to the
'Chapel' and they debate the address, handing out opinions and notions
just as bellies guide 'em."

"And the addresses. What are they mostly? On the work? The trade they're
working at?"

A world of pity looked out of Skert's eyes as he surveyed the man he
believed to be the greatest organiser the mill industry had ever seen.
He shook his head.