He and Mason together examined the industriously working gang-saws, long
steel blades with the up-and-down motion of cutting cord-wood. They
passed the small trimming saws, where men push the boards between little
round saws to trim their edges. Bob noticed how the sawdust was carried
away automatically, and where the waste slabs went. They turned through
a small side room, strangely silent by contrast to the rest, where the
filer did his minute work. He was an old man, the filer, with
steel-rimmed, round spectacles, and he held Bob some time explaining how
important his position was.
They emerged finally to the broad, open platform with the radiating
tram-car tracks. Here Bob saw the finished boards trundled out on the
moving rollers to be transferred to the cars.
Mason left him. He made his way slowly back toward the office, noticing
on the way the curious pairs of huge wheels beneath which were slung the
heavy timbers or piles of boards for transportation at the level of the
ground.
At the edge of the lumber piles Bob looked back. The noises of industry
were in his ears; the blur of industry before his eyes; the clean, sweet
smell of pine in his nostrils.
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