270 DAY ALLEN WILLEY 



Above his head the man at the lever has bared his arm 

 to the elbow to give his human muscle full play and tipped 

 back his cap to cool his brow a little, if possible, for the heat 

 from that fifty tons strikes him in the face with suffocating 

 intensity. With eye fixed on his superior he awaits the signal. 

 Possibly a nod of the head, possibly a wave of the hand — it 

 is sufficient. Pushing down the lever he frees the pent up 

 force. 



Silently as a feather floats downward this 125-ton knife 

 falls twenty feet in its groove, burying its edge in the dull red. 

 Out spurts a stream of fire on either side as a myriad of metal 

 particles white hot from the friction are forced into the air 

 by the blow. Despite the tons of iron and stone in the 

 foundation the concussion shakes the ground like a convulsion 

 of the earth. A pull at the lever and the executioner has 

 loosed his weapon to be raised to the top of the groove, leav- 

 ing a deep red cut in the object on the block. But the work 

 is not finished — another, perhaps two more blows are neces- 

 sary before the ton or so on the edge of the bed is completely 

 severed and falls on the pile of sand ready to receive it. 



Later you may see it being bent like a sheet of paper 

 between huge rolls of steel having the power of 7,000 tons, or 

 pierced full of holes as a boy bores a piece of wood with his 

 gimlet, but impressive as are these scenes they seem insignifi- 

 cant beside that of the hammer. 



Here is a tragedy of power, once witnessed, never to be 

 forgotten, yet a little later at the noon hour, and comedy re- 

 places it — the comedy of the clay pipe and the dinner pail. 

 For the time all this muscle of mechanism has become lifeless, 

 merely inert forms of metal. 



On the bed of the hammer stretches the leverman, 

 directly under the knife which would crush him to pulp, as 

 he enjoys his after dinner smoke. Scarce stopping to wash 

 the grime from their hands a group are sprawled out on the 

 soot and earth floor, propped against the pillars of the press, 

 each with pail in lap, finishing its contents to the last morsel 

 and " washing it down" with the cold coffee in the top can. 

 They realize their mastery, and in their attitudes show their 

 contempt for the power they control. 



