a lot of things in there and if you ever make the town, Joe
Sapp will show 'em to you. He has to, in order to eat. But the only
thing I remember was the way them lovely, luxurious loaves was
artistically assembled, and I'll remember that little item till the
insurance company pays off!

They was a great, big machine in the middle of the floor and that was
the thing that was makin' the bread and noise. A half dozen of them
skilled Scandinavians stood away up on a gallery at one end and their
job was of a pourin' nature. They was all dressed in white and wore
little trick hats on which it said this, "No Human Hands Touch It." I
didn't know whether it meant the skilled Scandinavians or the beautiful
bread.

"The most marvelous, magnificent, mammoth invention of the age!" bawls
the runt so's we could hear him over the noise. "Here is where the
beautiful bread is blissfully baked by the wonderful workmen! This
machine cost the sensational sum of half a million dollars, and its
capacity is a trifle over five hundred finely finished luscious loaves
each and every--"

That's all I heard because I went in a trance from watchin' the thing.
I never seen nothin' like it before and I know darn well I never will
again. Listen! Them skilled Scandinavians poured in raw wheat at one
end of this here machine, and it come out the other end, steamin' hot
bread! Some machine, eh? Not only that, but when it come out, it was
baked, labelled, wrapped in oil paper and smellin' most heavenly from
that generous gob of Gazoopis, as the runt said.

I dragged the Kid outside and we started for the railroad station
without comment. As we passed out the door, we heard the runt
screamin', probably thinkin' we was still there.

"One section reduces the wheat to flour, another mixes the dough, it
passes on to the steam ovens and then what happens? _Bread_! Over
here--"

The Kid stops all of a sudden, takes a hitch in his belt and looks back
at the shop.

"Hell!" he says. "They _can't_ make no bread like that!"

"You seen 'em do it, didn't you?" I asks him, although I was thinkin'
the same thing myself.

"Even at that," he comes back, "I don't believe it!"

We walks on a little ways, and the Kid stops again.

"I certainly wish I could talk like that little runt!" he shoots out.
"Take it from me, that bird is there forty ways. He's got Webster
lookin' like a dummy!"

He keeps on mutterin' to himself as we breeze up to the s