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Story of Wool

<h2>CHAPTER XII HOME TO THE EAST</h2> <ANTIMG class="figleft" src="images/wdog.png" width-obs="150" height-obs="167" alt="" /> Within two weeks Thornton, Mr. Clark, and Donald were back in Massachusetts, and the thread of Eastern life was once more taken up. Donald did not return to school, since it was now so near June that to enter the class seemed useless; instead it was decided that he should have a tutor through the summer to help him make up the work he had lost, and thereby enable him to go on with his class in the fall. This tutor, however, had to be found, and until he was the boy was free from duties of every sort. It gave him a strange sense of loneliness to [184] be with nothing to do. All his friends were in school—there was no one to play with. "I think I'll go in to the office with you, father," he suggested one morning. "It is stupid staying round in Cambridge when all the fellows are slaving for their exams. I have been so busy while out on the ranch that now I do not know what to do with myself." Mr. Clark agreed to the proposal cordially. In consequence it came about that Donald joined Thornton at the large Boston warehouse. The store was not new to the boy, for he had often been there with his father; but to Thornton this part of the wool business was as novel as the first glimpses of ranching had been to Donald. The high building of yellow brick with floor after floor of hurrying men, the offices noisy with the hum of typewriters, the ring of telephones, the comings and goings of messenger-boys and mail-carriers—all this little universe of rush and confusion was an untried world to Thornton. Its strangeness dazed him. Mr. Clark promptly placed him in the accounting [185] department, but to his surprise Thornton foundered there helplessly. It was one thing to keep books amid the quiet and leisure of Crescent Ranch, and quite another to struggle with columns of figures in the riot of modern business surroundings. At the end of three days the Westerner looked gray and tired, and had accomplished nothing. "I don't know what I am going to do with him, Don," announced Mr. Clark, much troubled. "I have brought him here from Idaho, and of course I am bound to look out for him; yet there does not seem to be an earthly thing he can do. My plan was to set him to keeping books in Cook's place, and send Cook out to Crescent Ranch to help Sandy. Sandy, you know, cannot handle accounts. Poor lad—he had little opportunity for schooling in his youth, and the financial side of his work is his one weak spot. He realizes this himself, and it was only on the condition that I send him an assistant that he would undertake the management of the ranch at all. I expected, as I say, that Cook would go; evidently, however, Thornton is not going to be able to fill his place. What shall [186] I do with Thornton, Don? We must find a niche for him somehow." Donald reflected a moment. "Had you thought, father, of trying him up-stairs?" he asked. "No, I hadn't. We need a foreman up there, but I had not considered Thornton for the position. That is a happy inspiration, son. We will give him a try. He may make good yet." Accordingly Thornton was sent to the upper floors of the warehouse, where the wool was stored. Here were great piles of loose wool reaching from floor to ceiling. Some piles contained only the finest wool; other piles that which was next-best in quality; still other piles were made up of the coarser varieties. There were piles of scoured wool, piles of South American and Australian wool—wool, wool, wool everywhere! With keen interest Thornton looked about him. He wandered from one vast pyramid of fleeces to another, catching up handfuls of the different varieties and examining them. Then he walked to where the men were busy opening the first spring [187] shipments of wool from Crescent Ranch. The wool was emptied from the sacks onto the floor in great heaps, and crews of men—skilled in judging the fiber—set to work to sort it, separating the different qualities into piles. Donald, who was looking on, saw a smile pass over Thornton's face—the first smile that had brightened it in days. Then, almost instinctively, the ranchman rolled up his sleeves and began to grade wool with the other men. He worked rapidly, for he was thoroughly familiar with what he was doing. The next day when Donald went up-stairs he found Thornton directing a lot of green hands who were packing the sorted, or graded wool, in bags. Later in the week it chanced that the man who weighed the wool fell ill and the Westerner took his place at the scales, seeing that the sacks of wool were correctly weighed and recorded, that they were sewed up strongly, and marked for shipping. Gradually the men, recognizing Thornton's ability, began to defer to his judgment. The month was not out before Clark & Sons began to [188] wonder what they had done before Thornton came. So familiar did he make himself with the stock that even Mr. Clark sent for and consulted him about orders and shipments. "He is proving himself a thoroughly useful man, Don," declared Mr. Clark rubbing his hands with satisfaction. "His knowledge of the ranch and of the wool itself is invaluable. It is just a case of putting the peg into the proper hole. Thornton was like a fish out of water here in the office. Now he is in his element. I shall make him foreman of the shipping department—a position just suited to him, and which he will fill well." "I am so glad he has made good, father," said Donald. "Now, what are you going to do about an assistant for Sandy? That is the next question to settle, I suppose. Have you found any one?" "Not yet. I have had a great deal to do, Don. I shall, however, look up some one as soon as possible. In the meantime, before you start in with your tutor, and Thornton gets so rushed that he cannot be spared, I want to take you both to Mortonstown to [189] visit the Monitor Mills. Thornton has never seen the manufacture of woolen goods and will be the more intelligent for doing so; as for you, I am anxious to have you complete the story of wool-growing which you began at Crescent Ranch. To stop short of visiting a mill now would be like reading the opening chapters of a book and never finishing the volume." "I do want to know the rest of the story very much, father," Donald replied. "I told Sandy when I was out West that I hoped you would some time take me to a mill. Since we got home, though, you have been so busy that I did not like to ask you." "That was thoughtful of you, son. Ordinarily I should have preferred to wait; it chances, however, that something has come up which obliges me to see the Monitor people right away. So I shall go out there to-morrow, taking Thornton with me, and if you like you may go also." "Of course I'd like!" exclaimed Donald eagerly. The next day proved to be so gloriously clear [190] that instead of making the trip to Mortonstown by train Mr. Clark decided to run out in his touring-car. It was not a long ride—something over twenty-five miles—but to Thornton, unaccustomed to the luxury of a modern automobile, the journey was one of unalloyed delight. "It is like riding in a sitting-room on wheels, isn't it?" he murmured with a sigh of satisfaction. "Some day you will be having a car of your own, Thornton," Mr. Clark said, smiling. "And riding to Idaho in it," put in Donald. "Well, it is about the smoothest way I ever traveled!" declared the ranchman. "When we came East I thought that sleeping-car close to a moving palace; but this thing has the train beaten to a frazzle. You see I am used to jolting over rough roads in springless wagons, and it is something new to me to go along as if I was sliding down-hill on a velvet sofa-cushion." Donald and his father heartily enjoyed the big fellow's pleasure. As for Thornton, when the car came to a stop [191] before the puffing Mortonstown mills it was with regret that he dragged himself from the seat. Still, he had the ride home in anticipation—that was a comforting thought. Once within the mills, however, even the memory of the homeward journey faded from his mind. The vast buildings throbbing with the beat of engines, the click and whirr of bobbins, and the clash of machinery, blotted out everything else. When they entered Mr. Munger, the manager, who was expecting them, came forward cordially. "We were glad to hear by telephone that you were coming out to-day, Mr. Clark," he said. "Mr. Bailey, the president, is waiting to see you in his private office." "Very well," answered Mr. Clark. "Now while I am talking with him I should greatly appreciate it if my son Donald, and my foreman, Mr. Thornton, might go over the works. They have never visited a woolen mill." "We shall be delighted to show them about," answered Mr. Munger. "I will send some one with them." [192] Turning, the manager beckoned to a young man who was busy at a desk. "This gentleman," continued he, "has been with us many years and will be able to answer all your questions. Take these visitors through the factory, Mac, show them everything, and bring them back here. Now if you are ready, Mr. Clark, we will join Mr. Bailey." Donald and Thornton moved away, following their guide into a building just across the yard. Here wool was being sorted by staplers who were expert in judging its quality. They worked at frames covered with wire netting which allowed the dirt to sift through, and as they handled the material and tossed it into the proper piles they picked out straws, burrs, and other waste caught in it. "This sorting must be carefully done," explained the bookkeeper who was showing them about, "or the wool will not take the dye well. Much depends on having the fleeces clear of waste. We also are very particular about the sorting. The finest wool, as you know, comes [193] from the sides of the sheep; that clipped from the head and legs is coarse and stiff. All this we separate before we send the fleeces on to be scoured. In this next room you will see how the material is washed." They passed on and next saw how steam was blown through the wool, not only removing the dirt but softening the fibers. The fleeces were also washed in many great bowls of soap and water. "Here again we must exercise great care that the water is clean and the soap pure, or the wool will not dye perfectly. We use a kind of potash soap which we are sure is of the best make. Another thing which renders the scouring of wool difficult is that we must not curl or snarl it while we are washing it." "I don't see how you can help it," Donald said. "We can if we take proper care," returned the bookkeeper. "And what is this other machine for?" inquired Thornton, pointing to one at the end of the room. <div class="figcenter pad"> [194] <ANTIMG src="images/i193.png" width-obs="400" height-obs="585" alt="" /> "WHAT IS THIS OTHER MACHINE?" </div> "That machine is picking the wool apart so that the air can get through it and help it to dry. [195] After it is picked up light and fluffy we pass it through these heavy rollers, which are like wringers and which squeeze out the remaining moisture. Yet during all these processes we must always be careful not to snarl the wool. See, here is where it comes out white and clean, ready to go to the dyeing room." Donald regarded the snowy fleeces with wonder. "You would never dream it could be the same wool!" he said. "Isn't it beautiful? It is not much the way it looks when it leaves the ranch, is it, Thornton?" "I should say not," agreed the Westerner emphatically. "The sheep ought to see how handsome their coats are." "So they should!" answered the young bookkeeper. "You have been on a ranch then?" "We have just come from one," Donald answered. "Have you, indeed! It is a free life—not much like being shut up inside brick walls." "You have been West yourself, perhaps," ventured Thornton. [196] "Yes, years ago—when I was a boy; but not recently." "Ah, you should see the sheep country now!" Thornton went on. "It is much improved, I reckon, since you were there." "I imagine so," the young guide answered with a wistful smile. "It is so long since I have had a breath of real air that I have almost forgotten how it would seem." "If you are wanting fresh air go out on the ranges and fill your lungs. You will find plenty there," declared the ranchman. "That is just what they are trying to make me do," the young man replied, "I have not been very well this year and Mr. Munger thinks the confinement in the mill is telling on me. He wants me to go West for a vacation." "And should you like to?" questioned Donald. The man did not answer; instead he said: "Suppose we go on. We must not waste too much time here. In this next room you will see how the dyeing is done. We use centrifugal machines, and beside those we have these others to [197] keep the wool spread and turned. With all our care not to snarl or curl it, it will get matted and must therefore be picked apart again. So we pass it through these revolving drums which, you see, have sets of spikes on them; as the spikes on the different drums turn they catch in the wool and pick it all apart so it is again light and fluffy as it was before." "Doesn't so much washing and dyeing take out all the yolk, and make the wool very dry?" inquired Thornton. The young man conducting them seemed pleased at the question. "Yes, it does! That is just the trouble. Therefore we are forced to set about getting some oil back into it; otherwise it would be so harsh and stiff that we could do nothing with it. So we put the thin layers of wool into these machines and carry them along to a spraying apparatus which sprays them evenly with oil. We use olive oil, but some other manufacturers prefer lard oil or oleine." "How funny to have to put oil back into the [198] wool after you have just washed it out!" Donald remarked. "It is funny, isn't it?" nodded the bookkeeper. "Now on this side of the room they are blending the fleeces. Sometimes we blend different qualities of wool to get a desired effect, or sometimes we blend the wool with cotton or a different fiber. We take a thin layer of wool, then put another layer of a different kind over it. We then pick it all up together until we get a uniform mixture." "It is a surprise to me that the wool has to go through so much red tape before it comes to spinning," Thornton said. "It is a long process," responded their guide. "I remember when I first saw it, it seemed endless. Now I think little of it." "We get used to everything in time, I suppose," Thornton answered; then he added whimsically: "Still, I don't think I should ever get used to riding in an automobile." A hearty laugh came from behind them, and turning they saw Mr. Clark and Mr. Munger, the manager. [199] "I came to hunt you up," said Mr. Clark. "I have finished my interview with Mr. Bailey, and it seemed to me that by this time you must have finished spinning your next-winter's overcoat, Don." "But I haven't, father," retorted Donald, smiling into his father's face. "I have not even begun to make the cloth at all." "The yarn is not spun yet, sir," put in the young man who was with them. "You are a slow guide, Mac, I fear," Mr. Munger laughed, laying a kindly hand on his bookkeeper's shoulder. "That is the chief fault with you Scotchmen—you are too thorough. Now let us hurry along. These gentlemen must get back to Boston to-day, you know." Mr. Munger bustled ahead, conducting his visitors across a bridge and into the next mill. Here was the carding room. Layers of wool entered the carding engine and were combed by a multitude of wire teeth until all the fibers lay parallel; the thin film of wool then passed into a cone-like opening and came out later in a thick strand of untwisted fibers. [200] "It is now ready to go to the drawing-frames," Mr. Munger explained. "You will notice how these drawing-frames pull the wool into shape for twisting and spinning, drawing it out to uniform size and finally winding it on bobbins. The machine is a complicated one to explain, but you can watch and see what it does." "How wonderful it is that machinery can do all this work," Mr. Clark observed thoughtfully. "Yes, it is," Mr. Munger agreed. "Years ago every part of the process was done by hand. Little by little, however, machines have been perfected until now we have contrivances that seem almost human. Shall we go now and see the yarn spun?" When they reached the spinning room with its clatter of shifting bobbins Mr. Munger turned to Donald. "I wonder if you know," he said, "that wool is worked into two different kinds of yarn—worsted yarn and woolen yarn. The fibers for worsted yarn are long and lie nearly parallel, and when woven result in a smooth surface. Broadcloth is [201] made from worsted yarn. Woolen yarn, on the other hand, has its fibers lying in every direction and all these loose ends, when woven, give a rough surface. Of course after the cloth is milled it comes out smooth, but it is not as smooth and fine as a worsted cloth." "I think I understand," Donald said. "Are we to see the cloth woven next?" "Yes. You know we weave nothing but woolens; you must go to a worsted mill to see the other kinds of cloth made. The processes, though, are much alike." Mr. Munger then hurried the party to the weaving mills, where amid an uproar of thousands of moving wheels, bobbins, and shuttles the threads of yarn traveled back and forth, back and forth, and came out of the looms as cloth. The cloth was then steamed, pressed, and rolled or folded. "And now, young man," announced Mr. Munger to Donald jestingly, "you have seen the whole process, and there is no reason why your father should not give you some wool and let you make your own cloth for your next suit of clothes." [202] Although Donald was very tired he tried to smile. "I think," he said, "that I would rather grow the wool on the ranch than make it into cloth here. It is far nicer out on the ranges." "That is what I am trying to tell my young assistant," agreed Mr. Munger. "He is getting fagged, aren't you, Mac? You see he was brought up in the open country, and much as we think of him, we feel that he should go back to the Western mountains." "Oh, I am all right, Mr. Munger," the bookkeeper hastened to say. "Just a bit tired, perhaps—that is all." "If you are tired you should try the ranges of Idaho," Mr. Clark said. "My boy, here, and myself have recently returned from a year in the sheep country and feel like new men, don't we, Don? Undoubtedly the life there may not be as gay as in the city; still—to quote my manager, Sandy McCulloch, 'with bears, bob-cats, and coyotes, I dinna see how it could ever be dull.'" So perfectly had Mr. Clark imitated Sandy's [203] voice and accent that Thornton and Donald both laughed. Then they stopped suddenly. The young bookkeeper had turned very pale and was eying them with a startled face. "Sandy McCulloch!" he repeated. "Did you say Sandy McCulloch, sir?" "Yes, Sandy McCulloch," answered Mr. Clark. "Do you know him?" "He must be of your kin, Mac!" interrupted Mr. Munger. "This lad, strangely enough, is a McCulloch himself—Douglas McCulloch." "Then you must be—you are Sandy's brother!" cried Donald. The young man swayed a little and put out his hand to steady himself. It seemed to Donald as if he would never speak. When he did his voice was tremulous with emotion. "Yes," he replied almost in a whisper. "I am Sandy's brother. Tell me of Sandy and of my father." <div class="figchapter"> [204] <ANTIMG src="images/chapter.png" width-obs="500" height-obs="191" alt="Chapter Decoration" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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