Perhaps the dreariest environment imaginable is a stone-cutters' shed on
a bleak day in the first week in March. The large ones stretching along
the north shore of Lake Mesantic are no exception to this statement. A
high wind from the northeast was driving before it particles of ice, and
now and then a snow flurry. It penetrated every crack and crevice of the
huge buildings, the second and largest of which covered a ground space
of more than an acre. Every gust made itself both felt and heard among
the rafters. Near the great doors the granite dust whirled in eddies.
At this hour in the afternoon Shed Number Two was a study in black and
gray and white. Gray dust several inches thick spread underfoot; all
about were gray walls, gray and white granite piles, gray columns,
arches, uncut blocks, heaps of granite waste, gray workmen in gray
blouses and canvas aprons covered with gray dust. In one corner towered
the huge gray-black McDonald machine in mighty strength, its multiple
revolving arms furnished with gigantic iron fists which manipulate the
unyielding granite with Herculean automatonism--an invention of the
film-like brain of man to conquer in a few minutes the work of nature's
aeons! Gray-black overhead stretched the running rails for the monster
electric travelling crane; some men crawling out on them looked like
monkeys. Here and there might be seen the small insignificant "Lewis
Key"--a thing that may be held on a woman's palm--sustaining a granite
weight of many tons.
There were three hundred men at work in this shed, and the ringing
_chip-chip-chipping_ monotone from the hundreds of hammers and chisels,
filled the great space with industry's wordless song that has its
perfect harmony for him who listens with open ears and expansive mind.
Jim McCann was at work near the shed doors which had been opened several
times since one o'clock to admit the flat cars with the granite. He was
alternately blowing on his benumbed fingers and cursing the doors and
the draught that was chilling him to the marrow. The granite dust was
swirling about his legs and rising into his nostrils. It lacked a
half-hour to four.
Two cars rolled in silently.
"Shut thim damned doors, man!" he shouted across to the door-tender;
"God kape us but we' it's our last death we'll be ketchin' before we can
clane out our lungs o' the dust we've swallowed the day. It's after
bein' wan damned slitherin' whorl of grit in the nose of me since eight
the morn."
He struck hard on his chisel and a spark flew. A workman, an Italian,
laughed.
"That's arll-rright, Jim--fire up!"
"You kape shet," growled McCann. He was unfriendly as a rule to the
Dagos. "It's in me blood," was his only excuse.
"An' if it's a firin' ye be after," he continued, "ye'll get it shurre
if ye lave off workin' to warm up yer tongue wid such sass.--Shut thim
doors!" he shouted again; but a gust of wind failed to carry his voice
in the desired direction.
In the swirling roar and the small dust-spout that followed in its
wake, Jim and the workmen in his cold section were aware of a man who
had been half-blown in with the whirling dust. He took shelter for a
moment by the inner wall. The foreman saw him and recognized him for the
man who, the manager had just telephoned, was coming over from the
office. He came forward to meet him.
"You're the man who has just taken on a job in Shed Number Two?"
"Yes."
The foreman signed to one of the men and told him to bring an extra set
of tools.
"Here's your section," he said indicating McCann's; "you can begin on
this block--just squaring it for to-night."
The man took his tools with a "Thank you," and went to work. The others
watched him furtively, as Jim told Maggie afterwards "from the tail of
me eye."
He knew his work. They soon saw that. Every stroke told. The doors were
shut at last and the electric lights turned on. Up to the stroke of four
the men worked like automatons--_chip-chip-chipping_. Now and then there
was some chaffing, good-natured if rough.
The little Canuck, who by dint of running had caught the car, was
working nearby. McCann called out to him:
"I say, Antwine, where you'd be after gettin' that cap with the monkey
ears?"
"Bah gosh, Ah have get dis a Mo'real--at good marche--sheep." He stroked
the small skin earlaps caressingly with one hand, then spat upon his
palm and fell to work again.
"Montreal is it? When did you go?"
"Ah was went tree day--le Pere Honore tol' mah Ah better was go to mon
maitre; he was dead las' week."
"Wot yer givin' us, Antwine? Three days to see yer dead mater an' lavin'
yer stiddy job for the likes of him, an' good luck yer come back this
afternoon or the new man 'ud 'a' had it."
"Ah, non--ah, non! De boss haf tol' mah, Ah was keep mah shob. Ah,
non--ah, non. Ah was went pour l'amour de Pere Honore."
"Damn yer lingo--shpake English, I tell you."
Antoine grinned and shook his head.
"Wot yer givin' us about his Riverince, eh?"
"Le Pere Honore, hein? Ah-h-h-rr, le bon Pere Honore! Attendez--he tol'
mah Ah was best non raconter--mais, Ah raconte you, Shim--"
"Go ahead, Johnny Frog; let's hear."
"Ah was been lee'l garcon--lee'l bebe, no pere; ma mere was been--how
you say?--gypsee a cheval, hein?" he appealed to McCann.
"You mane a gypsy that rides round the counthry?"