Part 14 (2/2)

Or Joan of Arc might once have gazed that way in Orleans' woods.

CHAPTER XV

It was in December that Mary's great idea began to a.s.sume form. She wrote to the American Amba.s.sadors in Great Britain and France for any doc.u.ments which they could send her relating to the subject so close to her heart.

In due time two formidable packages arrived at the house on the hill.

Mary carried them into the den and opened them with fingers that trembled with eagerness.

Yes, it was all true.... All true.... Here it was in black and white, with photographs and statistics set down by impartial observers and printed by government. Generally a state report is dry reading, but to Mary at least these were more exciting than any romances--more beautiful than any poem she had ever read.

At last woman had been given a chance to show what she could do. And how she had shown them!

Without one single straining effort, without the least thought of doing anything spectacular, she had gently and calmly taken up men's tools and had done men's work--not indifferently well--not in any makes.h.i.+ft manner--but ”in all cases, even the most technical, her work has equalled that previously done exclusively by man. In a number of instances, owing to her natural dexterity and colour sense, her work, indeed, has been superior.”

How Mary studied those papers!

Never even at college had she applied herself more closely. She memorized, compared, read, thought, held arguments with herself. And finally, when she was able to pa.s.s any examination that might be set before her, she went down to the office one day and sent for Mr.

MacPherson, the master mechanic.

He came--grey haired, grim faced, a man who seemed to keep his mouth b.u.t.toned-and Mary asked him to shut the door behind him. Whereat Mac b.u.t.toned his mouth more tightly than before, and looked grimmer, too, if that were possible.

”You don't look a day older,” Mary told him with a smile. ”I remember you from the days when my father used to carry me around--”

”He was a grand man, Miss Mary; it's a pity he's gone,” said Mac and promptly b.u.t.toned his mouth again.

”I want to talk to you about something,” she said, ”but first I want you to promise to keep it a secret.”

He blinked his eyes at that, and as much as a grim faced man can look troubled, he looked troubled.

”There are vera few secrets that can be kept around this place,” was his strange reply. ”Might I ask, Miss Mary, of what nature is the subject?”

And seeing that she hesitated he added, first looking cautiously over his shoulder, ”Is it anything, for instance, to do wi' Mr. Woodward? Or, say, the conduct of the business?”

”No, no,” said Mary, ”it--it's about women--” Mac stared at her, but when she added ”--about women working in the factory,” he drew a breath of relief.

”Aye,” he said, ”I think I can promise to keep quiet about that.”

”Isn't it true,” she began, ”that most of the machinery we use doesn't require a great deal of skill to run it?”

”We've a lot of automatics,” acknowledged Mac. ”Your grandfather's idea, Miss Mary. A grand man. He was one of the first to make the machine think instead of the operator.”

”How long does it take to break in an ordinary man?”

”A few weeks is generally enough. It depends on the man and the tool.”

Mary told him then what she had in her mind, and Mac didn't think much of it until she showed him the photographs. Even then he was ”michty cautious” until he happened to turn to the picture of a munition factory in Glasgow where row after row of overalled women were doing the lathe work.

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