im:--"Well?"

"I'd like a job in the sheds."

At the sound of that voice, the manager glanced up quickly, keenly. He
saw before him a man evidently prematurely gray. The broad shoulders
bowed slightly as if from long-continued work involving much stooping.
He looked at the hands; they were rough, calloused with toil, the
knuckles spread, the nails broken and worn. Then he looked again into
the face; that puzzled him. It was smooth-shaven, square in outline and
rather thin, but the color was good; the eyes--what eyes!

The manager found himself wondering if there were a pair to match them
in the wide world. They were slightly sunken, large, blue, of a depth
and beauty and clarity rarely seen in that color. Within them, as if at
home, dwelt an expression of inner quiet, and sadness combined with
strength and firmness. It was not easy to look long into them without
wanting to grasp the possessor's hand in fellowship. They smiled, too,
as the manager continued to stare. That broke the spell; they were
undeniably human. The manager smiled in response.

"Learned your trade?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been working at it?"

"Between six and seven years."

"Any tools with you?"

"No."

"Union man?"

"No."

"Hm-m."

The manager chewed the handle of his pen, and thought something out with
himself; his eyes were on the pad before him.

"We've got to take on a lot of new men for the next two years--as many
as we can of skilled workmen. The break will have to be made sometime.
Anyhow, if you'll risk it they've got a job for you in Shed Number
Two--cutting and squaring for a while--forty cents an hour--eight hour
day. I'll telephone to the boss if you want it."

"I do."

He took up the desk-telephone and gave his message.

"It's all right." He drew out a ledger from beneath the desk. "What's
your letter?"

"Letter?" The man looked startled for a moment.

"Yes, initial of your last name."

"G."

The manager found the letter, thrust in his finger, opened the page
indicated and shoved the book over the desk towards the applicant. He
handed him his pen.

"Write your name, your age, and what you're native of." He indicated the
columns.

The man took the pen. He seemed at first slightly awkward in handling
it. The entry he made was as follows:

"Louis C. Googe--thirty-four--United States."

The manager glanced at it. "That's a common enough name in Maine and
these parts," he said. Then he pointed throu