crowded with wire racks of bread, and came out into a big room where about fifty guys were working. Some of them where throwing long ropes of dough over hooks in the wall, throwing it and pulling it back and throwing it again. And others were carrying the dough away from the hooks and laying it out on long wooden tables.
One side of the room was made up of a row of brick ovens, and the guys working in front of them were stripped to the waist. They’d flick the door of the oven open, and reach inside with a kind of flat-bladed shovel; they’d reach about sixty times to the second, it looked like. I was watching them, thinking that that kind of work I could do without, when Mr. Kendall came up behind me.
“Well,” he said, touching me on the arm. “What do you think of us, Mr. Bigelow?”
“It’s quite a place,” I said.
“Not completely modern,” he said. “I mean, it’s not mechanized to the extent that big-city bakeries are. But with help so cheap there’s no reason why it should be.”
I nodded. “I came over to explain about Ruth, Mr. Kendall. She had an accident on the way home at noon, and—”
“An accident! Was she badly hurt?”
“Just shaken up. Her crutch gave way under her, and she took a spill.”
“The poor child! You’re not in any hurry? Well, let’s get out of this noise for a moment.”
I followed him across the room, a fussy polite little guy in white overalls and a white sailor cap.
We entered another room, about a third of the size of the first one, and he pushed the connecting door shut. He boosted himself up on a table and gestured for me to sit beside him.
“It’s clean, Mr. Bigelow. We don’t keep flour in here, just the more or less precious commodities. Looks a little like a grocery store, doesn’t it, with all these shelves?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Now, about Ruth. I wanted to ask you—”
“You don’t need to, Mr. Bigelow.” He took out his pipe and began filling it. “Naturally, I won’t say anything to Mrs. Winroy. But thank you for letting me know what the situation was.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I helped her set the rooms straight. I mean—”
I let my voice trail away, cursing myself. I didn’t want anyone to know that I’d been through the rooms.
“Mmm,” he nodded absent-mindedly. “I’m very glad you came over, Mr. Bigelow. As I said at noon. I don’t want to appear presumptuous, but I’ve been thinking—uh—don’t you believe that, instead of merely waiting around until you hear from the sheriff, it might be well for you to start putting roots down? In a word, don’t you feel it would be sound psychology to demonstrate that there is not the slightest doubt in your own mind of the outcome of last night’s unfortunate business?”
“Yeah?” I said. “I don’t get you.”
“I was referring to—” He paused. “Now that—your response just now—brings up something else I wanted to speak to you about. If, that is, you won’t think I’m—uh—being—”
“Let’s say, I won’t,” I said. “You’re not being presumptuous. You just feel a friendly interest in me, and you want to give me a little fatherly advice.”
I’d said it the right way, and there wasn’t anything in my face to show that I didn’t mean it.
“I’m glad you understand, Mr. Bigelow. To take the second matter first, I was going to suggest that you be a little more careful about the language you use. I know most young men talk rather slangily and—uh—tough these days, and no one thinks anything of it. But in your case, well, don’t you see?”
“I understand. And I appreciate the advice,” I said. “After all, regardless of what’s happened, it won’t hurt me to talk a little better brand of English.”
“I’m afraid I put things rather badly,” he said. “Badly or baldly, if there’s any difference, I suppose I’m so used to ordering these student workers around that—”
“Sure—surely,” I said.
One side of the room was made up of a row of brick ovens, and the guys working in front of them were stripped to the waist. They’d flick the door of the oven open, and reach inside with a kind of flat-bladed shovel; they’d reach about sixty times to the second, it looked like. I was watching them, thinking that that kind of work I could do without, when Mr. Kendall came up behind me.
“Well,” he said, touching me on the arm. “What do you think of us, Mr. Bigelow?”
“It’s quite a place,” I said.
“Not completely modern,” he said. “I mean, it’s not mechanized to the extent that big-city bakeries are. But with help so cheap there’s no reason why it should be.”
I nodded. “I came over to explain about Ruth, Mr. Kendall. She had an accident on the way home at noon, and—”
“An accident! Was she badly hurt?”
“Just shaken up. Her crutch gave way under her, and she took a spill.”
“The poor child! You’re not in any hurry? Well, let’s get out of this noise for a moment.”
I followed him across the room, a fussy polite little guy in white overalls and a white sailor cap.
We entered another room, about a third of the size of the first one, and he pushed the connecting door shut. He boosted himself up on a table and gestured for me to sit beside him.
“It’s clean, Mr. Bigelow. We don’t keep flour in here, just the more or less precious commodities. Looks a little like a grocery store, doesn’t it, with all these shelves?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Now, about Ruth. I wanted to ask you—”
“You don’t need to, Mr. Bigelow.” He took out his pipe and began filling it. “Naturally, I won’t say anything to Mrs. Winroy. But thank you for letting me know what the situation was.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I helped her set the rooms straight. I mean—”
I let my voice trail away, cursing myself. I didn’t want anyone to know that I’d been through the rooms.
“Mmm,” he nodded absent-mindedly. “I’m very glad you came over, Mr. Bigelow. As I said at noon. I don’t want to appear presumptuous, but I’ve been thinking—uh—don’t you believe that, instead of merely waiting around until you hear from the sheriff, it might be well for you to start putting roots down? In a word, don’t you feel it would be sound psychology to demonstrate that there is not the slightest doubt in your own mind of the outcome of last night’s unfortunate business?”
“Yeah?” I said. “I don’t get you.”
“I was referring to—” He paused. “Now that—your response just now—brings up something else I wanted to speak to you about. If, that is, you won’t think I’m—uh—being—”
“Let’s say, I won’t,” I said. “You’re not being presumptuous. You just feel a friendly interest in me, and you want to give me a little fatherly advice.”
I’d said it the right way, and there wasn’t anything in my face to show that I didn’t mean it.
“I’m glad you understand, Mr. Bigelow. To take the second matter first, I was going to suggest that you be a little more careful about the language you use. I know most young men talk rather slangily and—uh—tough these days, and no one thinks anything of it. But in your case, well, don’t you see?”
“I understand. And I appreciate the advice,” I said. “After all, regardless of what’s happened, it won’t hurt me to talk a little better brand of English.”
“I’m afraid I put things rather badly,” he said. “Badly or baldly, if there’s any difference, I suppose I’m so used to ordering these student workers around that—”
“Sure—surely,” I said.
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