ting its power and speed by lengths
of swaying, sagging belts to the machinery that stood so closely
packed on the vibrating floors, and between which passed, and
behind which stood, the operatives, unconscious of danger, and
with scarce a care than how to keep pace with the speed of steam
and the flying hours. Every eye was strained, and every nerve as
highly strung as the gearing of the revolving wheels, the keen
glances of the overlookers seeing to it that none paused until the
hour of release.

The atmosphere was heavy, the temperature high, and flecks of
'fly' floated on the stifling air, wafted by the breath born of
whirring wheels, and finding rest on the hair of women and the
beards of men until the workers looked as though they were
whitened by the snows of a premature decay.

Women and girls sang snatches of songs, and bits of old familiar
airs, with no accompaniment but the roar and rattle around, their
voices unheard save when some high-pitched note was struck; and
others found odd moments when by lip-signs and dumb show they
communicated with their fellow-workers.

Men and women, boys and girls, passed and repassed one another in
narrow alleys and between revolving machinery, crushing together
without sense of decency, and whispering hastily in one another's
ear some lewd joke or impure word, the moisture from their warm
flesh mingling with the smell of oil and cotton, and their
semi-nude forms offering pictures for the realistic pen of a Zola
or a Moore.

It was but one of the laps in the great race of competition where
steam contends with human breath, and iron is pitted against flesh
and blood. Over the hills were other factories where the same race
was going on, where other masters were competing, and other hands
were laying down life that they themselves and their little ones
might live--examples of the strange paradox that only those can
save their lives who lose them. Outside was pasturage and
moorlands, and the dear, sweet breath of heaven, the flowers of
the field, the song of birds, the yearning bosom of Nature warm
with love towards her children. Yet here, within, was a reeking
house of flesh--not the lazar ward of the city slum, but the
sweating den of a competitive age.

In the top story of the factory Amos was walking to and fro among
his roving frames, and dividing his time between hurried glances
at his workers and a small greasy tract he held in his hand,
entitled 'An Everlasting T