When Fred had first entered the mill his attention was arrested by Jack
Hickey--a witty, good natured Irishman. He was a quaint character, full
of fun and humor. His employment was washing and scouring wool and
shoddy--not a very genteel labor, for it was wet and dirty work, as well
as tiresome. However, Jack received for such service $1.75 per day, and
this made him happier than a $10,000 salary makes many a bank president.
Hickey was called by the boys the "Jolly Scourer"--not a bad appellation
for him either. His tub and rinser were near the flockers. Fred could
see and hear him while at his own work, and this furnished our young
friend much amusement; for whenever Jack had pitched the wool about in
the strong suds and was waiting for the action of steam upon it, he
usually filled in the time by singing bits of original rhyme and by clog
dancing.
His rhymes were as queer as himself, while his dancing was equally
peculiar. He had been persistent in the practice of the latter art, no
doubt; in fact, there was decided evidence of this, for in spite of the
clumsy cowhides that he wore, his right foot showed much careful
training. It was full of music and always on time. It could tap the
floor with the ease and skill with which a practised drummer beats the
resonant diaphragm. Moreover, it seemed to know all the steps of a
professional dancer, while his left foot was a thorough clod, so far as
this art went.
It always seemed to go just contrary to the other, and gave the
appearance of attempting something more difficult than it was capable of
performing. Indeed, this was almost the invariable result, as its
accomplishments in this line were so exceedingly few; besides, it was
always out of time, was clumsy and awkward, and was such a foot as is
familiarly described among boys as "belonging to the church."
"It is very queer why there is such a difference in the action of that
man's feet," remarked Fred to himself, with a suppressed titter; "but I
think, after all, the clumsy one is the most natural, and does just
about as I should expect a foot to do when incased in such an amount of
leather and belonging to such a man as Jack. What I don't understand is,
how the other one ever became so gamy."
Fred wondered if Jack was doing all that practice simply for his own
pleasure, or if he was trying to fit himself for an engagement with
some minstrel troupe. If for the latter purpose, there was some object
in it; but if simply for fun, Fred could not see where it came in when
he considered the immense amount of effort it must have taken to wield
with such dexterity those great boots, whose legs reached far above the
dancer's knee, and the soles of which were nearly an inch in thickness
and contained a generous supply of iron slugs.
When Fred first witnessed Jack's comical performances, they amused him
hugely, and he thought he had never before seen anything half so funny;
even the annual circus, with its train of animals, and dancers, and
tumblers and clowns, could not equal it. The "Jolly Scourer" was
extremely comical and clownish, evidently without trying to be so, while
the circus clown's _effort_ at comical acts and sayings detracts from
the amusing effect of the acts themselves.
Jack was thoroughly original, and his originality in music, which
accompanied these performances, added much to them; for, contrary to the
custom of many small boys when practising clog dancing, instead of
whistling Jack furnished his music by singing, in a rich brogue, bits of
improvised rhyme that he seemed to compose for the occasion. Many of
them were very funny, and possessed the originality and wit
characteristic of his nationality, which added much to the whole
performance.
Fred soon made the acquaintance of the "Jolly Scourer," and had many
good laughs at his jokes, which often lightened the monotony of routine
work. He moreover did our young hero many acts of kindness, and in a
certain matter proved of great service to him.
Time passed by with Fred in his factory life not altogether
unpleasantly, and as he saw no chance of getting into a store again very
soon, he concluded that the best thing for him to do was to gain every
point possible relative to woolen manufacture, and especially to the
finishing department, in which he had commenced his mill career.
Consequently he bent his energies to this purpose. Whatever was to be
learned by observation and by questioning he was fast finding out. When
he first ventured out into the wet gig room, he saw there numerous
machines, the working of which was a curiosity which he wished to have
explained; and after carefully examining them he hastened back to the
little humpback, where he felt confident he could get the desired
information. Said he:
"Carl, what are those great tall machines in the second room beyond us,
that have the large cylinders?"
"They are gigs--wet gigs."
"And what are they for?"
"They are to raise a nap on the cloth."
"How do they do that?"
"Well, that cylinder is covered with handles. You know what handles are,
I s'pose?"
"I know something about some kind of handles, but I guess not of this
kind."
"They are long iron frames about seven feet long, half an inch thick,
and just wide enough to take in two teasels, one on top of the other so
as to make two rows of them the whole length of the handle."
"And this iron frame filled with teasels is called a 'handle'?"
"Yes."
"But what are teasels?"
"They are the burrs of a plant something like a thistle. They are about
the size of a small egg, only not quite so large around, and they do not
taper so much, though one end is a little larger than the other. They
have sharp points, sort of like hooks, which all turn down toward the
stem, so you can run your hand over them one way and the points won't
hurt; but if you pull your hand back they dig right to the flesh."
"Oh, I know now, I saw a lot of them up stairs the other day and
wondered for what they were used here. Seems to me they are queer
things to use on cloth. Wouldn't something like a card with iron tacks
be better, and last longer?"
"No, I guess not. Probably anything like that would tear the cloth, and
I believe all of the mills use teasels. You see they would use what is
best."
"Yes, I suppose so," added Fred thoughtfully; "but tell me about the gig
and how they use this little prickly thing."
"Well, as I said, these frames filled with teasels are called handles,
and as the gig cylinders are covered all over with handles, it makes
kind of a solid bed of teasels. The cylinder whirls one way, and the
cloth, which is drawn close against it, goes the other."
"I should think the sharp points would dig into the cloth, and tear it
the same as wire points would."
"You see the gig is going so fast they don't get hold much, and then
they are not strong enough to tear it at once, but will wear it out
rather fast if too much pressure is put upon it. Those gigs out there
don't hurt it much, though, for they use old handles and the teasels are
broken down a good deal."
"Where are they used first, if they are old?"
"Up stairs on the dry gigs."
"What! Is it gigged up there, too?"
"Oh, yes; on two different gigs. Haven't you seen the great square iron
framed machines with two cylinders and two men tending them?"
"No, I think not. I don't believe I have been into that room yet."
"Well, the cloth is gigged there on the big machines the first thing
after it leaves the fulling mills and washers."
"How long do they run it up there?"
"They run it quite a while in all the different processes it goes
through. After it is gigged the first time then it is cropped."
"Cropped, you say?" exclaimed Fred, laughing. "Well, you have me again,
for I am sure I don't know what that means."
"Why, it means sheared--cutting off the nap which the teasels dig
up--only they don't call it 'sheared' the first two times."
"How many times is it sheared, I wonder!"
"'Bout four or five times, I think; twice on the cropper, and twice or
three times on the finishing shears. As I said before, it is run on the
big gig first and then is cropped. After this process is completed, it
runs on another dry gig of the same shape as the wet ones, and is
cropped again. Then it is placed on to the wet gigs where you saw it."
"I should think it would be all worn out if it is run so long against
those sharp teasels, besides having the nap sheared off several times.
How long do they keep it on the gigs?"
"It does get spoiled sometimes; I have seen plenty of pieces with the
face of the cloth all gigged through. It tears the filling all out and
leaves the warp. The cloth runs on each gig till a good nap is worked
up."
"That would be a good many hours in all, I suppose, but I don't see the
use of gigging it so much as to spoil the cloth. It won't wear very
well, will it?"
"Yes, but they gig it so as to get an extra fine finish, and make it
smooth and handsome. And then there are what they call the steam gigs.
It is run on them, and besides this it is gigged several times on the
back, both on dry and wet gigs."
"What! Is there still another kind of gig?" asked Fred, beginning to get
incredulous.
"No, they are just the same as the ones you saw, only they run the cloth
through them after it is steamed, so the boys call them the 'steam
gigs.'"